When It's Over
by P.L. Wynter
Summary: FutureFic. After a horrible accident, Sam and Dean have to learn what it is to be a family again. Originally a oneshot about: What would make Dean stop hunting?
1. Chapter 1

There was a pop, a twinge of pain, and then it was over. Just like that. No spectacular final battle, no going out in a blaze of glory, no heroic last stand to celebrate the finale of the life he knew. Just a pop. Then a jerk. And Dean Winchester, the hunter, was done. Done with heroism, done with chivalry, done with hunting, done with everything. And the moment he stared down at his toes and watched as they refused to move, refused to twitch, refused to do anything but sit still and taunt him, he began wondering which gun would leave the least mess of blood and brain matter when he put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Because Dean was many things, but parapalygic wasn't one of them.

It had been a stupid mistake that had sent him crashing through two stories of rotten wooden floors to land on the metal corner of a cabinet and ultimately severe the nerves in his spinal chord. One stupid mistake, one misplaced step while he'd been purifying the house and he had found himself laying alone in a cold, musty basement for four hours before taking an ambulance ride he barely remembered and winding up with three broken ribs, a fractured arm, cracked cheekbone, and a doctor's promise that he'd never walk again. And the bastard had the gall to call him lucky. Lucky.

This wasn't luck.

Luck would have his father and his brother by his side, together, doing whatever made them happy. Or if that was pushing it, because not even luck would make that fantasy come true, then he would be sitting in his hotel room, celebrating another successful hunt alone with a few shots of tequila. Or at the very least, if luck had been with him at all, if it had found time to grace him with just a smidgen of its time, then he would be lying comfortably six feet under in a nice city paid coffin and one of those fancy silk pillows, because this head wouldn't rest on anything less. But luck hadn't been with him. It hadn't even looked his way. Because lying in a hospital bed with no feeling from the waist down, wondering whether it would be better to put the barrel of his baretta to his temple or in his mouth, was not luck. If anything, luck had spat on him and told him to fuck himself.

Dean guessed that he should have seen it coming. He should have known it would end this way. Because nothing in his life ever ended the way he wanted them to. Nothing. Their apple pie life had ended with his mother dying in a fire, pinned to the ceiling. The big hunt, the one for the fucker who had killed her, ended with John's death and Sam's psychic meltdown that destroyed it. And after that, nothing had gone Dean's way. Sam had left him, just like he said he would. But Dean supposed he couldn't blame his little brother. He was the one who had said it was okay in the first place. But how could he not? How could he have stood there, with their father's blood still beneath their fingernails, while Sam gave him those pitiful eyes asking him to just let go, and say no? How could he have told his Sammy that no, it wasn't okay. No, he didn't want him to go. No, he couldn't live without him. So he said yes. Sam was gone. Dean flew solo. And every Christmas, birthday, or loneliest of the lonely days, he'd call or show up and lie to Sam and tell him he was fine. If Sam ever caught on that he was lying, he'd never said anything, and that was okay. Because Sammy was now Sam or Samuel. He was now Mr. Winchester. Married, 2.4 kids, dog, in-laws. There wasn't room for Sam to pity his older brother, lost in a world that wasn't his.

Dean lied to Sam for all the smile's he'd never see. For the ones he knew he gave to his wife when she cooked him his favorite meal, or for his daughter when she drew him a picture, or his son when he tossed him a baseball. Those smiles were the ones Dean lied for. Even though those smiles weren't his, weren't meant for him, he loved each and every one of them the same.

Was there a smile even left for him? One that wasn't backed by pity, worry, sympathy, and all the other things Dean hated about himself? Probably not. The days of smiles for the sake of smiling were gone. Sam had more important things to worry about than a brother he barely knew anymore with legs that would never walk. He wondered if maybe he should leave a note for his brother before he ended it all. Or would that be too imposing? What would he even say? 'Sorry, kiddo. Always thought I'd walk to hell?' No, no note. Sam would understand. He was strong. He'd be upset for a week or so and then move on.

There was whispering outside his hospital room. He wasn't in the mood to listen. Probably his doctor flirting with some nurse telling her what a shame it was that a young guy like this would never be able to walk again, would never be able to run, to jump, to bike, to swim, to high kick a demon in his fucking ugly face, to strut new shoes or care about how his butt looked in a pair of jeans, or fuck another woman ever again. Oh yeah, that baretta was calling his name. He could almost see the little red 'X' on his temple. Just point, pull, and it's all over. He wondered if Hell was ready for him. Probably had a nice suite all picked out. 

The door squeaked a bit, but other than that, he wouldn't have known it was opening. Dean didn't bother to open his eyes. Let them think he was sleeping, it kept him from seeing the way they looked at him. Damaged goods. Someone just put a label on his fucking forehead already and call it a night. Soft feet on the floor. High heels following closely. A chick. Great. Someone to remind him his mating days are over.

"Looks like he's asleep." Such a soft voice. Whispered. Like she's afraid if she talks any louder, whatever freak is laying in this bed will crack and shatter. He's made of procelain now. Everyone's afraid to touch him because no one wants to pay when they break him. Just put him up on a shelf, real high, dust him every once in a while. No way. No fucking way. Where's that gun? "Do you want a minute? I can go get us some coffee."

"Thanks."

And it's all over when he hears that voice. How had they found him? How had he gotten here so fast? Dammit, he wasn't supposed to be here. That wasn't how this was supposed to work. How was he supposed to aim a gun at his head now? Someone had just invited the Mother Hen. It would be years until Dean could get to a gun quick enough.

But God. Just having him in the same room. Just smelling his expensive cologne, the kind they'd never been able to afford. Just hearing his even breathing, sometimes shaky. Just listening to that sigh. God, that sigh. No, now was not the time to break. Remember, you're asleep. People don't just cry in their sleep for no reason. You don't know he's here. It's better that way. It's better if you just never wake up you fucking failure. You fucking broken failure. You...

"God, Dean." He can barely hold on at the dip in his voice. At the shaky breath, sharp intake. He can barely hold on, but he does. Because if he cries, if he lets just one tear slip, they'll both know. They'll both know he's awake, he's alert, he's broken, he's scared, he's fucking terrified. And it's better if just Dean knows. Because Sam doesn't need to. Sam doesn't need someone else's baggage. 

Soft fingertips touch his arm. It's so gently it hurts. It hurts in a way physical pain could never reach him. It hurts because Sam was never meant to touch Dean this gently. Sam was never meant to treat him like glass, like sand that will slip away if he pushed to hard. They're meant to hit, to punch, to squabble, to bicker, to hug if necessary. But never anything like this. Never a soft tickle of flesh on flesh. Dig your nails in Sammy. Make me bleed bro, please. Punch me a little. Slap me upside the head. Treat me like Dean, treat me like your brother. Let me do the crying, let me do the reassuring. Please. Please, dammit.

Sam's fingers leave Dean's arm and for a moment the world means nothing. Dean wants to open his eyes so badly, but at the same time, he wishes they'd stay shut forever. He wishes he could go to sleep. He wishes Sam would just leave and they could just mutually forget either of them had a brother. Because it's not suppose to be like this. Sam's not supposed to be here. This ruins everything. He's not going to make Sam clean up the blood splatter when his brain explodes out the back of his head. He'll leave that task to some poor nurse or some poor maid.

The hand comes back, this time gripping his firmly. It startles Dean so badly he almost gasps, almost gives away his consciousness. But Sam doesn't seem to notice as he brings up another hand to touch Dean's forehead. But whatever comfort it was meant to give is shattered when he feels the cold steel of a wedding band on Sam's finger. The reminder that Sam isn't his anymore. Sam doesn't need him anymore because he has a different family now, one that's much brighter, much happier, much safer. One that doesn't get their throats slit by demons or falls through floors and gets crippled.

Sam sighs. Dean hates that sigh. It means his brother is worried. Stop Sam. Stop. Don't worry for me. I let you go, now just let me go. I don't want to bring you down anymore. I can't.

"Sarah made me go to church the other day." Sam's voice is normal. It's surprising loud in a room that's been so quiet. Dean's strangely thankful that his brother's not whispering. "Been a while. This one's not so bad. The guy seems really down to earth." Dean lets him ramble. It's how Sam copes. "Hannah started ballet. Bet you have some good jokes about me going to buy a tutu." A rough laugh. "Cam had an ear infection the other day. We thought...well we were going to take him to the hospital but I remembered what Dad used to do for us. It worked."

Sam's quiet. The hand on his forehead leaves and Dean can picture it closed tightly as a fist against Sam's mouth, holding back whatever sound of distress is there. Dean resists the urge to squeeze his hand. You don't want me to comfort you, Sammy. Once I start, I won't be able to stop.

"Dammit, Dean," Sam chokes. Sam takes a moment then starts again. "Look, Dean, I know...I know that I haven't made things easy and that sometimes, most times, I never really knew what you were thinking, but...I mean...what I'm trying to say is...God, I can't do this." Sam lets go of Dean altogether and Dean's torn between happiness and the urge to cry out and grab his brother and hold on to him forever. Then Sam grabs his hand with such ferocity it scares him.

"I need you to be okay." 

I can't Sammy. Jesus, I can't. Don't you see? Don't you see what this life has done to me? I don't know how to live anymore. Dad never taught me this scenario. I can't fight this one. I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do. I can't save you when I'm broken. You need to leave, Sammy. You need to let me end this. I gotta follow Dad. I gotta follow him, I don't know what else to do. God, Sammy.

"Dean, I need you to be okay. You have to be. And, I don't just mean...physically, because we can handle that. I can handle that. But I need you, _you_ to be okay."

How am I supposed to do that, Sammy? How am I supposed to do that when Dad's dead? When you're off with your wife and kids and dog and job and I'm here with no legs and nothing to do but sit and think how it all when so fucking wrong, so fucking wrong that I want to blow my brains out the minute I get out? How am I supposed to be okay? I need to protect you. I don't know how to give you what you're asking for. 

"Please be okay."

And Sam sucks in a breath because Dean can't help but squeeze his hand.

And they sit for a moment, each wondering if the other felt it.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is quiet again and the tears are gone. He's back to being Sam, with a hint of Sammy. And maybe that's what gets to Dean. That hint. That small dash of flavor in the blandness that is their life. That little boy looking up at him, depending on him to make things right. To pull the covers up some more and tell him how to get rid of this fucking nightmare. Only this isn't a nightmare, it's real. But that little boy is still looking at him, wanting him to make things right. And if he could get up and dance, he would. But he can't. He won't ever be able to.

"Dean," Sam tries again. "Please."

And he lays there for a second, wondering what he can do, what he can say to make things right. Should he stay asleep, wait until Sam leaves, then hang himself off the side of the bed? Sick way to die, but at least it would be over with. Or should he open his eyes? Should he dare to look at his brother? Should he dare to put himself back into Sam's life even though it could be the worse thing he'd ever done to his little brother. Because who wants a broken old toy? Who wants another piece of furniture to move around that talks and moans and craps and eats their food? Does Sam want that? Does he really want that? Does he really know what he's asking for?

"I need my brother."

Sam lets go. Dean lets him let go. He listens to him stand up. Listens to him stretch. Listens to him grow up a hundred and fifty years in one stand. Listens to him stare. His whole life Dean had taken care of Sam. He'd do anything for his brother. Anything. Dying had been the best option. A gun to the head, a pull of the trigger. The best option until Sam had been selfish again. Selfish little bastard, always needing things. Needing Dean to be okay. Needing his brother. Needing Dean to pass the torch so he could be the protector and Dean be the protected for once. Or maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe Dean could still be protector. Maybe he could still take care of Sam, make sure he was alright. Maybe he could do it by just being there.

The door opens. Sam's leaving. Dean struggles. End this easy? Let Sam leave, pull the trigger tonight? Make sure not to burden Sam for the rest of his life with a handicapped, broken brother? Or give Sam what he wants. Give him a broken man to take care of the rest of his life. Give him someone to worry about when he falls asleep at night? Give him what's left of his brother? Is there even anything left?

Maybe just a little. So Dean gives it to him.

The hunter is gone. But the brother just woke up.

"You really went shopping for tutu's?"

And a gun with Dean's name on it is suddenly misplaced.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **This had originally been intended to be a oneshot. But after some persistent pestering from some readers, I decided to turn it into a chapter fic. There will be about 15 chapters. AU, future fic. :-D Enjoy.

* * *

When It's Over

Chapter Two

The steps to the front door were the hardest. Inside the house had been the easiest, there were no steps above three inches aside from the stairs that led to the second story, but he didn't think Dean would be needing to go upstairs for a while, at least not until they got one of those fancy chair mobile's that could just carry his brother up. So if he wouldn't be going upstairs for a while, the only places Sam needed to build a ramp were the steps up to the front porch and the one three inch step down that separated the living room from the kitchen. He'd gotten that step covered, but it was the outside steps he was having trouble with.

The plywood had to be a good two inches thick, Sam wouldn't settle for anything less. He didn't want the ramp snapping if it rained or was humid enough. So two inches thick, about seven feet long and three feet wide. It was going to extend down the walkway, but their house was back far enough from the sidewalk that there was still a good thirteen feet left if he needed to expand it further. He'd measured the exact angles and had cut out pieces to apply to the sides of the ramp so no rabbits or other animals would nest beneath it. He'd plastered it to the walkway. It was a permanent ramp. Sam hoped that would be a bold enough statement. He wouldn't be taking it down any time soon.

Sam had attached the pieces of wood together with two three inch nails on every side. He purchased corner brackets to make sure the ramp stayed attached to the porch and had bought an all new power drill that had enough oomph behind it to keep Sam from messing up the wood with crooked screws. He bought two cans too many of waterproof sealant for the wood, but he needed to make sure he had some because he would put on a new coat every summer, before it snowed, just to make sure the sealant was still good. He bought a black tarmac mat to put on top of the ramp so Dean would have some traction and wouldn't slip and slide when it was slick with rain.

All in all, when it was finished, the outside ramp looked pretty good. Sam had never thought of himself as a crafty kind of guy, but this project had turned out okay. Except it looked too steep. And there was a slight bump where the ramp met the porch. Maybe he could sand that down, he didn't want Dean jarring himself every time he wanted to come in or out of the house. But if he sanded it down, he'd have to repaint the porch because Sarah would definitely have something to say if part of her beautiful white porch was suddenly sanded away. Yeah, he could repaint it. That wasn't a problem. Another trip the hardware store. This ramp had to be perfect. This project had to be perfect. This whole god damned thing had to be perfect because if there was even one tiny flaw, just one tiny thing wrong, that meant it wasn't good enough. It had to be perfect, and then some, because this was for Dean. Dean who looked so broken there was hardly enough glue in the world to fix him.

But don't think of that now. Stay focused. This needs to get done. This has to be done.

"Hey you."

Sam startled out of his thoughts as he turned to look at Sarah. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the doorframe. Her hair pulled back in a lazy ponytail and damn she looked so beautiful, so supportive, so understanding. There was a slight crick to her lips, turned up into half a smile as she watched him.

"Hey you," he answered with only a half hearted smile before he looked away from her and back down at the ramp he'd been working on for the past five hours. There was sweat beaded on his forehead and he knew Sarah would be scolding him later for not putting on sun block. But what was a little sunburn? It was nothing compared to a cracked cheekbone, broken ribs, fractured arm, severed spinal chord. Dear God.

"Looks like you could use a break," she said in the voice that Sam came to recognize as her 'I'm telling not asking' voice. He both loved and hated that voice.

"It's almost done," he said, not letting his thoughts drift to undesirable places right now. "I think it's too steep. And there's a bump at the top I need to fix. That bump actually looks pretty big." He chewed on his thumbnail. "Maybe I should tear this down and start over. I mean I could extend it out further. I don't want Dean to have problems getting up-"

"Sam," Sarah's voice broke his tirade out thoughts. He paused and looked over at her. She shrugged off the doorframe and walked over to him, her feet making an echoing noise as she walked down the ramp and stepped off the side to stand next to him. Man, that would be noisy. He should have filled it in instead of making it hollow. Maybe he should have used concrete? "It's fine."

"Yeah," Sam admitted begrudgingly. "I just…" I just what? What is it that he wanted? To make things as easy as possible for Dean? To make sure his brother had everything he needed? To hear Dean praise his excellent craftsmanship? To listen to Dean bitch and moan and joke and poke fun at him the way older brothers do? To have Dean back? Maybe that one came closest. He wanted Dean back. It had been thirteen years. Thirteen yeas of normal and of seeing Dean maybe four or five times a year and talking to him maybe once a month. Thirteen years since Dean had driven him to Stanford, gotten him squared away, and then took off on a hunt. It hurt to think of how much he'd missed his brother without really realizing it. Hurt to think that when Dean came around, when he'd shown up for a couple Christmas' or had randomly come to take Sam out to lunch, that those were the times Sam felt like he could breathe easier. To know Dean was there, safe and sound, not laying in a basement somewhere bleeding and broken and dying. He didn't know how hard it was to be without him until he was around. Life was fucked up that way.

So yeah, maybe what he wanted the most was to have his brother back. His brother, who joked and teased. Not this stranger in a wheelchair he barely knew. This quiet stranger who stared and didn't smile and didn't laugh when Sam made a joke. It hurt to think that this was all that was left of Dean. Not so much the physical aspect of it all, but the cold emptiness in Dean's eyes.

Sam had known. He'd known from the minute he'd gotten the phone call from the hospital. He'd known from the way the doctor had said, "Mr. Winchester, your brother's been admitted for treatment. I'm afraid there's been an accident." He'd known during the entire four hour drive across state to see him, to get to his side, to hold his hand, to see for himself that his brother was still breathing at least. And he'd known the moment Dean had given him a last attempt at normalcy with a joke that wasn't funny, but Sam had laughed anyway. He'd known, but he hadn't admitted it until he saw Dean's eyes. So lost, so helpless, so dead. So un-Dean.

Dean was done. He'd given up. And Sam hated that the most. Because Dean never gave up on anything. It was what made him Dean.

"I just want to make him comfortable." Sam hated the thought as soon as it was out of his mouth. It was something a doctor said to a dying patient's family. All we can do is make him comfortable and wait. See how long he holds on. There's a betting pool going on if you want to join. We're guessing two weeks, at the most. "This isn't going to be easy for him."

"It's not going to be easy for either of you," Sarah whispered, running a hand along Sam's chest and wrapping her arms around him, holding him close. Sam breathed her in. Her familiar scent calmed him a bit. It hadn't changed over the years. Sam knew it never would. "You're going to have to give this some time, Sam. Don't expect a miracle the first day."

"I know," Sam whispered with a sigh and hugged her a bit tighter. No miracles the first day, right. But what about tomorrow? Could tomorrow come and bring with it a Dean that was familiar to him? What about the day after? Was it too much to ask that at the end of the week they would have fallen back into their roles as brothers? Probably. This wasn't like all the other times Dean had been hurt. Dean could always bounce back, because he could always heal. But this. There was only so much that time could heal.

"Hannah's looking forward to seeing him," Sarah said as she pulled away from Sam. She kept one arm around his waist, her fingers rubbing his side affectionately. He smiled at the thought of his eldest daughter and Dean together. God, they were a deadly duo at one time, when Dean used to come around. The last time she'd seen her uncle see was only five years old. But they'd been two peas in a pod. Wreaking havoc in the household. Double teaming both Sam and Sarah to get ice cream and candy bars. It was the first time Dean had stuck around longer than two nights. He'd stayed a whole week. Sam guessed that was why Dean hadn't come back after that. Why when he showed up to see Sam, it was always at his office or when he knew the kids were out of the house. Dean didn't like getting attached. Especially not to something he knew could hurt him so much. He hadn't even come around when Cameron was born. Sam had forgiven him instantly. "Told everyone in her class about her favorite uncle."

"She didn't tell them about the closet monster thing, did she?" Sam asked, unable to keep his smile hidden at the memory. Hannah had been afraid of the monster in her closet for a few months before Dean had shown up. Sam, after checking to make sure there was indeed not really a monster, had tried everything he could think of to convince here there wasn't anything to be afraid of. But nothing had worked. Two nights after Dean had come to stay with them, Sam had gone into his daughter's room and found the two of them camped outside the closet, with a wide assortment of provisions including vials of Holy Water, garlic, a half dozen rosaries, a packet of peanut M&M's, and a gun which had been held firmly in Hannah's hands. Sam had been furious at first when he caught sight of the gun.

Sam had rushed forward, angrily taking the gun from his daughter and yelling at Dean that this wasn't the way things were around here and how stupid could he be to give a kid a gun and God he was just like Dad. Sam would feel guilty about that last part later, but Dean didn't seem phased. He just held up his hands and had said, "Chill, Sam, it's just a squirt gun." And when Sam had looked closer, he'd felt all the anger melt out of him and it was replaced with embarrassment. He'd pulled the trigger and a stream of Holy Water had shot out. He'd looked back down at Dean, who was looking rather amused. "Magic squirt gun," he'd said. "Always does the trick."

Hannah had chimed in after that with a, "Yeah, Dad, chill. It's just a magic squirt gun," like it was the most obvious thing in the world and he was dumb not to realize it. Sam had given the toy gun back and after a few moments of making sure Dean would get Hannah to bed at a decent time, he'd left them to their adventures. Hannah hadn't been scared of her closet since. And it wasn't until a few months after Dean left, when Sam was cleaning out some old boxes from Hannah's closet, that he found the protection rune carved into the wall at the back of the closet.

Sarah laughed as she remembered the incident too. The memory brought a warm rush of love and affection for his brother that nearly choked as it collided with the thought of how effected by this whole thing Dean was going to be.

"No," Sarah answered, still smiling. "I don't think she's ever told anyone about that. It's their little secret." She stood on her toes to kiss Sam on the cheek. He looked down at her, wondering what that was for. "It's going to be okay, Sam."

God, how did she know exactly what to say to make things all better? It was a talent her and Dean shared to an infuriating fault. Sam nodded. "I know," he whispered and kissed her forehead.

"Good," Sarah answered. "I'm going to start dinner. You'll probably be a while? Going to pick him up?"

"Yeah," Sam said. Though he'd managed to get Dean transferred to a closer hospital, it was still an hour's drive away. And no doubt it was going to be a chore getting Dean ready to go. "Save me some?"

"Sure," she kissed him again before heading back up the ramp towards the house. "Drive safe." She paused at the door and turned. "And Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam turned around to look at her, his hands knitted in back of his head as he breathed out slowly, trying to alleviate the sudden panic he felt at the prospect of going to get Dean and bringing him home. Home. Sam's home. Sarah's home. Their home. And now it would be Dean's home. He wondered how long it would take Dean to consider this his home. Had Dean really ever had a home?

"You should take a shower first," Sarah said and Sam frowned at her. "Dean doesn't need you showing up all sweaty and stinky." She winked and went into the house.

Sam chuckled softly to himself before looking back at the ramp. It would have to do, for now. He'd put it off as long as he could. Truthfully, he didn't want to admit that he was so nervous. This was Dean. This was his brother. There was no reason to be nervous. This is someone he'd known his whole life, someone he loved more than life itself. Someone who loved him back.

Or had that love disappeared too? Was Dean so far gone that he wouldn't care? Sam hoped not. He prayed not. If there was one thing in his life that he had always counted on, it was Dean's love for him. And if that was gone, Sam didn't know what he would do.

Sam put away his tools and went to shower before going to pick up his brother and bring him home.

He only hoped there was still a brother left in that broken body.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Getting Dean home was actually easier than Sam had expected. Well, in all honesty he hadn't really known what to expect, but it went smoothly, which was better than he had anticipated. Dean hadn't said more than two words. A short "yeah" when Sam had asked him if he was ready to 'blow this popsicle stand' and a quick "sure" when he'd asked him if he was comfortable sitting in the front seat of Sam's SUV. Other than those two short words, he hadn't said a thing. Nothing when Sam had come to pick him up, nothing when he'd helped him get dressed, nothing when the doctor had come to talk to Sam about watching for signs of remission and nothing during the car ride home.

Sam had done all of the talking. Trying to keep the mood light. He'd chattered. Rattling off anything that popped into his head. And Dean had just sat there, head against the window, wincing when Sam would hit a bump, but not saying a word or giving any indication that he was listening to what Sam was saying. He probably hadn't been. And though Sam was keeping in mind Sarah's words from earlier, about not expecting a miracle the first day, he couldn't help but think that by now, Dean should be at least talking. When Sam had gone to see him that first day in a frantic panic with tears in his eyes, Dean had talked. _You really went shopping for tutus?_ But it was just fuel for a fire that wasn't burning. That had been all Dean could offer.

During the two weeks Dean was confined to the hospital bed, the hope that that one small joke had lit inside Sam had all but gone out. It was the last of Dean's jokes. When Sam came to see him, they'd sit in uncomfortable silence. And when Sam tried to break the silence, Dean would sigh or close his eyes. Trying to get away, not wanting to talk. Sam wondered if this was how Dean had been after the fire, after their Mom died. _You know, when I was your age, I saw something bad happen to my Mom and I didn't really feel like talking either._ Sam had never thought of how a four year old Dean would have coped with their mother's death. Sam had barely coped with Jessica's death and he'd been twenty two. Silence, for Dean Winchester, meant he'd come across something he couldn't handle. It only happened twice in Dean's life.

Sam pulled the SUV into the driveway and put it in park. After turning off the ignition, he sat for a moment, keys in hand, staring hard at the steering wheel as if it held the answers to all the questions in the Universe. Finally, he got his wits about him and turned to look at Dean. His brother's eyes were focused on the house. But Sam didn't think he was really seeing it. He was seeing what was inside. Sarah, the kids, Sam's life. Not Dean's life. Never Dean's life.

"You ready?" Sam asked quietly and Dean's eyes fell. But he reached to unfasten his seatbelt with the arm that wasn't in a cast. Sam watched his brother move painstakingly slow for a moment before he hopped out and rounded the car to pull open the passenger side door. He pulled Dean's wheelchair out of the back seat and had it open and ready for him. Dean eyed it wearily for a moment, his face crumbling when he realized he wouldn't be able to get in it without Sam's help. "Okay," Sam whispered, noting the tears welling in Dean's eyes. "Let's get you out of there."

Dean had never hated anything more in his life than how he hated himself right then. He hated the way Sam kept pausing, watching him, looking at him, seeing him. He hated the way Sam was gentle, nervous around him. He hated that he couldn't do anything for himself, that his baby brother had to dress him and move him and keep his hands on him to make sure he was still there. Dean didn't have the heart to tell him that he wasn't. Sammy, we can't fix this one. Just let me die, it will be better for the both of us.

Sam positioned the wheelchair with delicate precision, making sure it was just right before he reached up to grab Dean's arm and sling it over his shoulders. The cast was bulky and awkward, but Sam didn't mind. He slid his arms beneath Dean's legs, pausing when he heard Dean take a sharp breath. "All right," Sam said, to let Dean know what was coming. Then he lifted his brother and bent to put him in the chair, straining at the weight but also thinking that Dean used to be heavier. He'd lost a lot of weight. Lost a lot of muscle.

While Sam was getting Dean's legs straight on the footrests, Dean watched him with growing anger. His mind was screaming 'I can do it, Sam. Let it alone. Stop taking care of me. Leave me the fuck alone.' But his body refused to acknowledge the thoughts. He wanted to reach out and shove Sam's hands away, to take control back over his own body, but he couldn't. He couldn't because Sam was being so careful. Because Sam looked so dedicated and focused. Because Sam was going to worry that bottom lip bloody if he didn't stop chewing on it. Sam needed this. And as much as Dean hated it, he took it. His punishment for being weak. Give Sam the control, let Sam have what he wants. It didn't matter what Dean wanted anymore. Nothing else mattered except for Sam.

"There," Sam announced and Dean looked down at himself, at his legs he no longer felt, at his arm laying limply in his lap, at the bulging of bandages underneath his shirt. Yeah. There. Sam patted Dean's arm and straightened his shirt for him, not really realizing what he was doing. He just wanted Dean to look okay, to feel okay, to be okay. "Ready to go inside?" He paused, as if he almost expected an answer, but then continued. "Sarah's got the guest room all set up for you. We figured you'd probably be pretty tired."

Sam came around behind Dean and started pushing him towards the house. But as soon as they rounded the car, Dean's head lifted fractionally and he whispered a distressed, "Sam." Sam stopped and leaned forward to get a look at his brother's face. Dean was looking at the ramp Sam had worked on all day.

"Hey," Sam forced a smile, trying to keep his voice light. "You need to be able to get around so, I thought this would help. I mean, I know there's a bump at the top but I can fix that." He watched Dean close his eyes and put his head in his hand. "I can fix that," Sam repeated quieter, unsure of whether he was talking about the ramp or about his brother. He hoped it was both.

Pushing Dean up the ramp, Sam wondered again why he was so nervous. Sarah knew Dean and the two of them had always acted like family together. He didn't think Sarah would look at Dean any differently. His children loved Dean, or what they could remember of him. Hannah practically worshiped him. There was no reason to be nervous. Things would work out. You'll see, Dean. Things will work out.

When Sam reached over Dean to open the front door, the aroma of cookies baking wafted out and Dean had to close his eyes again. Not just because the thought of food made his stomach lurch, but because it was so…normal. A beautiful house, a beautiful family, and cookies baking. It was everything Sam had ever wanted. God, why was he here? Why was he intruding on this? He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't fucking be here.

"We're home!" Sam called, startling Dean a little.

Sarah poked her head out of the kitchen and as soon as her eyes found Dean, she was smiling. She came out, pulling an oven mitt off one hand and placing it on the hall table as she made her way towards them. "Dean," she said, face still bright. It was the brightest smile Dean had seen in a while. Sarah bent down and gave him a light hug. "We were just making you cookies. Hannah remembered your favorite. Peanut Butter."

As if on cue, Hannah suddenly came barreling around the corner, a smaller boy at her heels, and a toddler waddling at a slower pace behind them. Sarah took a step back and intercepted her children before they could jump on their uncle.

"Hi," Hannah said shyly as she stood beside her mother. The little boy who'd been her shadow clung to Sarah's leg, peeking at Dean from behind his human shield. The toddler mirrored his older brother.

And all Dean could do was look at them. Look at that perfect family. Sam and Sarah, the perfect couple. _I think this Sarah girl could be good for you._ That's what he'd said to Sam the first time they'd met her. He'd never said truer words. Look at this. Look at what she's given him. It's more than Dean could ever give him. And the kids. The three brown haired, wide eyed, beautiful kids. Hannah with her hair in a braid. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been five. She was eleven now. Eleven. Patrick was eight. He'd been just a gurgling baby the last time Dean had seen him. And Cameron. The baby. The one Dean had never met. The one who was now looking at him with wide, adoring eyes. It was too much. This was too much. This is too much Sammy, get me out of here, I can't be here, I don't want to be here.

Hannah looked up at her mother when Dean didn't say anything and just continued to stare at them with watery eyes. Sarah put an arm around Hannah and smiled. They'd talked about this. Sarah had sat her kids down to tell them that Uncle Dean is sick. He probably won't want to talk a lot. You have to be nice and you have to be gentle. Will he be okay Mommy? Give it time, baby. He just needs time.

"Well, we've got your room all ready, Dean," Sarah said, her eyes meeting Sam's, who nodded tensely and started to wheel his brother down the hallway, towards the guest room they'd made up for Dean. "We'll let you get some rest and we'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight," Hannah called but Dean didn't answer. How could he? Don't get her hopes up. Her uncle's dead and he's not coming back. Don't give her a reason to think differently. Just before Sam pushed Dean into his room, he heard Hannah whisper quietly to her Mom, "Why didn't he say goodnight?" Dean didn't hear the answer.

Sam wheeled Dean into the room, over to the bed, near the window. Sam locked the breaks and took a step back. "You need help getting into bed?" he asked. Dean just gave a small shake of his head. Sam accepted that answer. He looked around the room, making sure there were enough blankets and pillows. "We uh, we set up the TV in here with cable so, uh, if you watch any violent movies just make sure the kids aren't peeking in, they like to do that." Dean looked out the window with a sigh, his only answer. Sam nodded and hit his fists together out of nervous habit. Why was this so awkward? Just say it already, Sam. This is your brother for cripes sake. "Dean…"

"Don't." Sam stopped what he was going to say, watching his brother's face stare impassively out the window. Dean just shook his head and said it again. "Don't." Don't pretend this is okay. Don't pretend to be happy I'm here. Don't pretend you can fix this.

"Okay," Sam whispered. He wished Dean would look at him. But his brother just kept staring out the window, like Sam wasn't even there. Maybe in Dean's mind he wasn't. Sam scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make Dean shut down. But he couldn't think of anything. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to his brother. His _brother. _ Dammit. Why is this happening Dean? Why did this happen to you? Why doesn't the world want you to be happy?

"Then, I'll…uh, I'll see you in the morning, I guess," Sam said uncertainly. Dean didn't answer and Sam felt like crying. Just look at me, Dean. Please, just once. This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay, even if it's the last thing I do. "Night then."

Sam paused in the door to watch his brother for a moment, but Dean was lost in his own mind. That was a dangerous place to be lost in. Especially all alone. Sam would have to make him realize that he wasn't all alone. Not this time. Not ever again. He closed the door to Dean's room and leaned up against it, fighting back the burning in his eyes. This wasn't the Dean he knew. This was some stranger pretending to be his brother. Some stranger who'd taken over his body. Sam had half a mind to go back in there and exorcise this stranger. Give me back my brother you bastard.

Sarah appeared at the end of the hall and their eyes met for a moment. She gave him an encouraging smile but Sam couldn't return it. Tears welled up in his eyes and he had to look away. She came over to him, wrapping her arms around him, rubbing his back softly. They didn't talk. They didn't have to.

Sam put his head on her shoulder and cried.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sam groaned as someone rolled onto him. It took him half a second to recognize the weight, the scent, the feel of Sarah. Even after all these years, he'd never been able to fully get rid of the hunter instinct that had been ingrained into him. That fraction of a second when he thought of flipping that weight off, pinning them to the floor and pulling a knife. He still kept one in the drawer of the table beside the bed. No matter how many years of normal Sam could get, that would never change. He'd gotten comfortable once before. He wouldn't do it again. Not to that extent. And the best part was, Sarah understood. She understood because she knew. She knew what was out there, what could hurt them. She'd been hesitant at first about the knives and the runes and the other "emergency only" supplies Sam kept around the house. But after Hannah was born, she'd gone out and bought Sam a whole new set of hunting knives. "Just in case." They'd hid the knives together.

"Mmm, morning," Sarah whispered as she kissed his neck. Sam groaned his greeting back, still not opening his eyes. She chuckled softly and wrapped her arms underneath him. "You didn't turn on the alarm."

"Nope," Sam said, smiling.

"So I guess that means you're not going to work today." Her tone wasn't reprimanding, merely observing, amused.

Finally opening his eyes, he found her looking down at him, a frisky look on her face. He loved that look. "Nope," he repeated.

Sarah laughed and in between kissing him again she said, "Me neither." She laid her head on his chest. "Been a while since we've both had the day off."

"Sure has," he agreed as he kissed the top of her head. He rolled over so they were side by side, facing each other. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he just ran his fingers down the side of her face and really looked at her. Sarah. His wife. His beautiful, gorgeous, intelligent, perfect wife. What had he done to deserve her? _It wasn't my butt she was checking out._ Dean's words played through his head. They're first date had been because of a hunt, but also, because of Dean. If it hadn't been for his brother, he would have talked to her once and probably wouldn't have looked back. Not in the state of mind he'd had back then. But Dean had pushed. And Sam had found the love of his life. The thought gave Sam a sober feeling.

"I should go see how Dean's doing," Sam whispered.

Sarah's smile faltered for a second and if he hadn't been watching for it, he never would have seen it. But he did and immediately he was torn. "Yeah," she whispered and rubbed his arm before rolling onto her back and looking at the ceiling.

"Well, I mean, I don't have to do it right now. I could-"

"Sam," Sarah interrupted and turned to look at him. "I think Dean needs you more than I do right now."

For some reason, the words were enough. They were enough to tell him that Sarah was behind him. That she didn't hold it against him, or Dean, or anybody. That she understood. But it also hurt to realize it was true. He wished it wasn't. He wished Dean wasn't hurt. He wished Dean could have found a wife, had a family, lived a life, a real life. Maybe he still could.

"Oh? Are you sure?" Sam said playfully and sat up, but bent down to kiss her forehead. "You don't want me to give you more babies?"

Sarah let out a laugh and shoved his chest. "Get out of here you perv."

Sam chuckled as he stood up and grabbed a pair of pants from the dresser. He pulled on a clean shirt, checked himself once in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair before heading to the door. He paused for a second, a wave of nervousness rushing through him at the prospect of facing Dean. Would he be more responsive today? Would he want to see Sam? Would Sam get another glimpse of the brother he knew? He hoped so. He hoped to God it would be so.

With a deep breath, he pulled open the door and turned to give Sarah a smile, which she returned, before closing it behind him. He walked down the stairs quietly and headed down the hall towards the guest room, Dean's room. Another hesitation, another deep breath, and he knocked quietly on the door. There wasn't an answer, so he pushed it open slowly, not wanting to wake Dean up if he was sleeping.

But that wasn't the case.

Sam literally felt his shoulders drop as he found Dean still sitting in his wheelchair, facing the window, the exact same way he'd left him the night before. One glance at the made bed told Sam that his brother hadn't even touched it. He internalized the sigh that begged to escape his lips and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He stood there awkwardly for a moment, wondering what he should say. He was sure yelling at his depressed, unresponsive brother wasn't going to get them anywhere. And even a friendly-toned lecture probably wouldn't do much good. Maybe feigned curiosity? Worth a try.

"Weren't tired?" he tried to keep his voice light, a simple question, no anger or scolding behind it. He thought it came out pretty well.

"Guess not." The answer surprised Sam. He half expected Dean to not respond, or maybe yell or get annoyed or something. He didn't know how to take this answer. So he just nodded and walked over to sit down on the bed, so he could see Dean's face.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, changing the subject. "We've got the fixings for steak and eggs, or biscuits and gravy. We even got grits if you want them."

"I'm not hungry." The short answer. Dean didn't even turn his head to look at him.

Okay, new tactic. "You should eat _something_, Dean," he said, bending forward, trying to see Dean's eyes. But his brother just kept staring out the window. "We could just make toast if you want-"

"I said I'm not hungry," Dean's voice was curt, bitter. It was Dean-speak for "go away."

Sam wasn't going anywhere. "Fine, we'll just wait 'til lunch." Dean let out a long sigh. Sam tapped his fingers on his knee, getting frustrated. "It's a little hot in here, don't you think? Maybe we should open a window." Sam got up and made it halfway to the window, but Dean's next question stopped him. Or, not so much the question as the tone.

"Aren't you going to work?" It was the way he said it that made Sam clench his fists. That 'get the hell out of my face,' 'what the fuck are you doing here,' 'I don't appreciate you' kind of tone. Sam had to remind himself that Dean was dealing with something that he couldn't even begin to understand. That his brother was stressed, depressed, angry, hurting. It took all of Sam's willpower not to yell.

"I took the day off," Sam said slowly, quietly, steadily. Don't yell, don't get mad.

Dean finally turned his head and Sam's anger instantly melted away at the look he found in his brother's eyes. Dean looked guilty. Sam hadn't expected that. What could his brother possibly be guilty for? Did he feel guilty for being here? Guilty for Sam staying home from work? That had to be it. Dean whispered a quiet, "Why?"

Not wanting to fuel his brother's guilt trip, he shrugged half-heartedly and said, "Needed a break. Had a few days of paid vacation."

Sam watched Dean's brow furrow slightly as he turned to look back out the window. He almost missed the whispered words. "You didn't have to."

"I wanted to," Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall, watching his brother, his eyes glancing over the assorted wounds decorating Dean's body. How could he not stay home? He wouldn't dare leave Dean home alone, not like this. When Dean didn't answer, Sam decided to stop skirting the issue. "Look, Dean, if we're gonna help you get better-"

"Who asked you to?" Dean spat so vehemently Sam was a bit taken aback.

"What?" he asked, thinking maybe he missed something.

Dean turned his head and stared at Sam, his bruised face angry. "Who asked you to help?"

For a moment, Sam was at a loss for words. He just stared at Dean, but his brother wouldn't look away, his angry face relentless. Sam opened his mouth to say something, but all he could get out was a scoff of disbelief. "No one," he answered, struggling for an answer. "No one had to ask," he added, his frustration filtering back in. "You're my brother, Dean. What did you want me to do? Leave you there?"

"Yes." The answer was quick out of Dean's mouth.

Sam frowned. "You're serious? You'd rather be back at the hospital?"

Dean clenched his good hand into a fist and grit his teeth. "Yes, goddammit, Sam." Dean turned away, tears of frustration forming in his eyes. He was grinding his teeth, his jaw working in circles, making the stitches on his cheekbone tug and pull. Sam just about reached out to hold his jaw still, but restrained himself.

"Dean…" But Sam didn't get a chance to finish.

"I didn't ask you to get me and bring me into your fucking apple-pie life. I didn't ask for it, Sam. You should have fucking left me there. But you can't leave things alone, can you? You can't just look the other way and be happy? You gotta keep taking until you have it all, don't you?" Dean's voice rose with his rant and his voice was strained and more emotional than Sam had heard it in a long, long time.

Sam felt his throat constrict with emotion. Why did things have to be so hard? "Sarah and I just want to help you. We just want to see you get better and then when you're back on your feet you can…" Oh God. He didn't just say that. But judging by the way Dean's face paled and his brow furrowed even deeper, if that was at all possible, he apparently had said it. And Dean reacted.

"I'll never be back on my feet!" he screamed, turning his wheelchair to face Sam. And although Sam was getting angry again, he was glad that Dean was finally facing him. That he'd finally stopped pretending he wasn't there. "I'll never get up from this fucking chair again and you know why? Do you know why, Sam? Because while you went off and found your perfect life, I had to carry on the family business. I had to finish what Dad started because you don't give a shit about what happened."

The floodgates broke after that. Sam forgot about his vow to not yell at his brother. He yelled, and he couldn't stop himself. "That's not true!" He took a deep breath. "And that's not fair. You know how upset I was after Dad died. God, Dean, how can you say that I don't care? I had nightmares for years after what happened. And not just about Dad. I had them about Mom, I had them about the fight, I had them about you, Dean. You know why? Because I do care. I do care about you. You know if you ever really needed me, I'd be there."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked. "Then where were you?" Sam felt his stomach drop. No, Dean, please don't say that. "Huh? Where were you?"

Sam shook his head, fighting back the urge to cry and scream and just punch something. "You're really blaming this on me?" he asked quietly and watched as Dean's eyes fell and he turned his head away. "My seeing the future days are over Dean. I didn't know this was going to happen. No one knew this would happen, not even you. But if I did? Jesus, Dean, I would have been at your side in a heartbeat."

They were quiet for a second, Sam watching Dean, Dean watching a spot on the floor. Sam wondered if his brother was going to say anything. His heart was racing. His head hurt. Say something, Dean. Just say something.

"Well, you weren't." Sam let out a shaky breath he'd been holding, it sounded like a muffled sob. The tears in his eyes weren't helping. "Now you finally got what you wanted." What? I never wanted this. "We're both done hunting." Sam's face crumpled and he had to look away. It hurt. It hurt because Dean was right. That was what Sam had wanted. He'd spent many days, weeks, years praying that Dean would just stop hunting. That Dean would just give it up and be safe. But damn. This wasn't what he wanted. Not ever this.

"Not like this, Dean," he whispered. But apparently Dean was done talking. He turned his wheelchair to look back out the window and let out a sigh. "Dean…"

"I'm tired, Sam."

Sam closed his mouth, trying to think of something, anything to say that would make this right. But nothing came to mind. He didn't know how. So he just nodded. "Okay." Then headed to the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I may not have been there then," he whispered, not looking back to see if Dean was listening. He knew he was. "But I'm here now."

He didn't wait for an answer. He was out the door before Dean could give one.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"_How's your head?" _

_Sam startled and looked up at his brother, who was standing at the foot of the other bed, packing his duffle bag haphazardly. Dean was watching him with careful eyes. Eyes that were still too far sunken, still too dark, still too sad. But Sam had seen them worse. The first few days after the big fight, where the demon died and took their Dad along with it, Dean's eyes had been foreign. So cold Sam was sure he was staring at a stranger. At least now he resembled his brother again. _

"_Huh?" Sam asked, realizing his thoughts had been wandering. _

"_Your head," Dean said and pointed at him with a shoe. "How's it feel? You seem kind of spacey lately. You blacking out again?" _

"_No," Sam answered and shook his head. "My head's fine." Thank God. It had gotten bad. The nightmares, the visions, the telekinesis that sometimes got out of his control. They'd been worried. Terrified that one day Sam would just lose control all together. He'd nearly thrown John across the room during an argument it had gotten so bad. _

_But that had all stopped when Sam had single handedly killed the demon. When he'd watched the demon slash their Dad's throat and nearly rip Dean in half, Sam had lost it. He'd completely lost control. He'd tell Dean later that he didn't remember what happened. He just saw Dad laying on the floor and Dean's shoulders popping as he was pulled by his arms in two different directions, and then all of a sudden he was at Dean's side, holding a shirt to his bleeding wrists. The windows had been shattered, half the room had collapsed, and the demon was splattered on all of the walls. Sam couldn't remember anything, but judging by the nosebleed, the sudden extra hundred pounds in his head, and the three weeks of random fainting spells, he knew it was something he'd done. _

_After that, the visions hadn't come back. The telekinesis never accidentally flung anything around again. The nightmares were still there, but fortunately none had come true. It was over. It was all over. _

"_Yeah, well that's questionable," Dean said and Sam frowned before remembering they had been talking about his head. Dean zipped up his bag and then turned fully to face Sam. "What's wrong then? Or are you just extra broody by choice?" _

_Sam ignored the jab. "I talked to an advisor at Stanford." He watched his brother's face go slack and Dean turned back to his bag, fidgeting with the strap. When he didn't say anything, Sam went on. "We're setting up a meeting with the dean to talk about me getting readmitted. He seemed sympathetic after…well, you know." _

"_So, you're going back to school then?" Dean whispered quietly, still not looking up. _

_Sam hesitated. They'd had this talk before, but it had never been more than just speculation. It had never been the real thing and he knew it was going to be hard for Dean. But Sam needed him to understand that this wasn't goodbye. At least not a forever goodbye. It was a 'I'll see you later, come visit me as often as possible, I'll always be there for you' type of goodbye. _

"_If you're okay with it, then yeah," Sam said slowly. Dean glanced over at him, but didn't say anything. "I mean, it's been six months since Dad…and I just thought that we'd given it enough time. No more visions, no more demons. I really want to go back. But I won't go if you really don't want me to." _

_Dean just stared and Sam could see the conflict raging a battle inside his head. For a moment, Sam didn't think his brother was going to say anything. He thought that they'd just stay like this forever, Sam waiting for an answer, Dean not wanting to give one. But finally, after an eternity of silence, Dean gave a slight nod of his chin and said, "If it makes you happy, then I'm not going to stop you." _

_A wave of relief washed over Sam. He'd expected more of a fight from his brother. He'd expected screaming and yelling and begging and pleading, maybe swollen eyes and split lips. But he hadn't any of that. Just an okay, you can go. Just an okay, I'll let you go. Sam tried not to let it show how excited he was. _

"_You could come with," he suggested. "We could get an apartment, have a home, you know? Or you could go see Cassie. Go be with her. It can be over, it can all be over. You don't have to keep this up, Dean." _

"_Yeah I do," Dean whispered so quietly Sam barely caught it. Then he turned and gave Sam the most forced smile he'd ever seen. _

"_Someone has to." _

Sam sighed as he pushed a stack of papers to the side of his desk. He'd been going over paperwork for cases his firm was working on. It was amazing how reading about other people's problems got his mind off his own. Well, at least partially. He was pretty sure he'd never be able to get Dean out of the back of his mind for long. There was always something that would remind him of his brother. Remind him of those sad eyes. Of those glaring eyes. Of those horrible accusations.

He still couldn't get over the fact that Dean was blaming him. But part of him already knew that Dean didn't actually blame _him._ More like he needed to blame _something._ All of the bad things that happen in the world have to have a reason for why they happen. Dean needed a reason. Hell, so did Sam. But who was there to blame, really? Himself? He hadn't know this was going to happen. And he'd offered Dean a way out. He'd told him to come with him, to stop hunting, to get a life. But Dean just kept on going. Maybe Sam should have tried harder.

What about blaming the poltergeist that had been haunting the house Dean was purifying when he fell? Sure, it was easy to lay the blame on that. But Dean had already gotten rid of the poltergeist. It wasn't even around. So how about the house itself for being old and rotten? What about the people who called asking for help? What about the paramedics who had taken four god damn hours to find his brother?

Hell, why not blame the whole thing on John fucking Winchester? The man was dead, but even in death he still managed to piss Sam off, still managed to get under Sam's skin and make Sam spend many nights awake just thinking about how wrong things were back then, how wrong they are now. Had John ever given them a choice other than to hunt? Had he ever told Dean that son, it's okay to stop hunting once this is over. Had he ever even thought of what would happen to his sons when this was over? _I want Dean to have a home._ Had he ever fucking told Dean what a home was? What it felt like? That yeah, Dean, it's okay to want a place, a person, a family, a feeling all of your own? No, he hadn't. And he'd died before he ever could. A part of Sam thought that his dad always knew he was going to die in the end. The only thing John had ever taught his sons was how to stay alive. But his definition of alive had been shot to shit.

In the end, Sam supposed he could always blame Dean. Dean, for not getting out while he still could. Dean, for always wanting to be the goddamn hero. Dean, for walking around in a stupid, rotting house, not knowing better, not thinking straighter, not taking precautions. Dean for being Dean.

Maybe it was the lawyer in him, but he couldn't help but feel that there had to be someone to blame. There was never freak accidents. There was always someone to sue. Someone who was guilty of something. For the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out who that was.

The front door opened and closed and Sam heard the sounds of his children galloping through the house, giggling and playing and laughing. He never got sick of that sound. He thought briefly of poking his head out of his office and telling them to keep it down, in case Dean was sleeping, but he highly doubted that his brother was indeed asleep. He was probably still sitting there, staring, hating, living without actually living. Sam shuddered at the thought.

Sarah suddenly appeared in the doorway and Sam looked up at her with a tired smile. She'd pulled her hair back and looked flushed. "Busy day?" he asked.

She sighed dramatically, but the twinkle in her eye showed him she didn't really mean it. "Remind me never to take Pat and Cam to watch Hannah at ballet. The older girls were all swooning over Pat and Mrs. Debbie had Cam doing a Plié by the end of class."

"Well, I'm not buying him a tutu," Sam said and ran a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion both physically and mentally.

Sarah came further into the room and stood in front of his desk. "How did it go this morning, with Dean?" Sam just sighed and looked up at her. "That bad, huh?"

Sam put his hands down on the desk and shook his head. "He kept saying that I shouldn't have brought him here. And, I don't know, maybe he's right. I feel like all I'm doing is making him feel bad."

Sarah pulled a chair over and sat down across from him, taking one of his hands. "This is going to be difficult," she said. "For both of you. For all of us."

"Do you think I did the right thing?" Sam asked quietly, brokenly. "Bringing him here?"

"I don't know," Sarah admitted. She chewed on her lip. "Does it feel right?"

"Nothing feels right," Sam said. "We're going to have to go back to work someday. There's not always going to be someone here to be with him. I don't think he should be alone." He paused for a moment, face twisting with emotion. "Maybe I made a mistake."

Sarah squeezed his hand. "Mistake or not, he's here now. If you send him back to the hospital now, you're going to be doing more hurt than good."

Sam put his head in his hand. "I don't know what to do."

"He's confused, Sam," she said. "He's hurting, more than just physically. It's going to take a lot for him to get over this. And for you." Sam frowned at her. "It's not easy, Sam. Seeing someone you love hurt like that. The best thing you can do for each other is just be there. Whether it's easy or not."

"He doesn't want me there," Sam said.

"Yes he does," Sarah nodded. "He just thinks he doesn't."

Sam smiled and let go of Sarah's hand, watching as she waited for him to say something. He looked away, scanning the mess on his desk, his eyes falling on the picture of Sarah and the kids he kept there. In the bottom corner of the framed picture, was the photo of Dean and Sam and their Dad sitting on their car, ready to go fishing. Sam barely remembered that fishing trip. But he remembered being tucked in at night by their Dad. He remembered sharing smores and hotdogs cooked over a fire with Dean. He remembered sitting on the edge of the river, his Dad showing him how to cast a line. It was one of his earliest memories.

"You know," Sam said, unconsciously moving a hand to rub a finger over the picture. "If Dad was here, he'd know what to do. He'd tell Dean to suck it up, learn to deal and move on. Dean always listened to him. They always got through to each other. He'd probably say 'be a man, Dean,'" he said in his best impression of John. He smiled after he said it, but the smile faded just as quickly. "I miss him sometimes."

"I know," Sarah whispered. "Maybe you should tell Dean that."

Sam scoffed and shook his head. "He'd just get mad. Or just…tell me to go away."

"You think so?" She asked. He just looked at her. "No matter how much it doesn't seem like it, that's still Dean in there. He's still the same annoying protective older brother who likes to see good things happen to you. He doesn't like to see you hurting. You should try talking to him again. And keep trying, no matter how many times he tries to shut you out."

Sam pressed his fingers into his eyes and then rubbed them down his face before looking at Sarah again. How did she always know the right thing to say? From the first time he'd met her, she always knew exactly what to say, exactly what would make him see things clearer.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asked, smiling genuinely.

"You flashed me that cute smile of yours," she said, getting up and playfully pinching his cheek. He chuckled and watched her leave. As she walked out the door, she called, "And I always thought your butt was particularly cute."

Sam just chuckled.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Dean had never been so troubled by a desk drawer before. There was that one drawer on a Sheriff's desk in Baton Rouge when he'd broken the paperclip he'd been using to pick the lock. Or there was the time when he was six and a two year old Sammy had accidentally slammed a drawer closed on Dean's fingers. He'd screamed bloody murder then, and because Sam didn't know what happened, he'd joined him. But even that drawer hadn't troubled Dean as much as this one. This stupid desk drawer, next to the bed, on a mahogany side table, with fancy brass handles and shiny, polished surfaces. Dean would have no trouble opening it.

And that's what was troubling him.

Because inside that fancy looking desk drawer, inside something that looked so innocent, sat his .45, model 945, kicked like a mule, jammed more than a Blues group, and right now looked like the best option this world had offered him in a while. He'd snuck it in when Sam had brought him here. It was fully loaded, it was ready for action, and all Dean had to do was wheel his gimp ass over there, put it to his head, and pull the trigger and this nightmare would be over.

Dean had read once in a book (_why are you reading about the philosophy of death, Dean-o? Just cause, thought it seemed relevant, Dad.) _about Plato's two visions of death. The first, and what Dean hoped for, would be like an eternal dreamless sleep. The kind of sleep where you go to sleep and wake up nine hours later though it doesn't seem like anything more than five minutes. Only in death, you don't wake up. You don't gauge how long you've been asleep. You don't do anything but just stop. And the idea of just stopping, just ceasing everything, seemed like such a relief. This life where he was constantly moving, constantly feeling, constantly screaming; to just stop, that would be the greatest gift he'd ever been given.

But the second vision of death, the one Dean thought had to be true, Plato classified as, "the movement of the soul from one plane to another." Basically a big fuck you, you don't get to sleep, you're going to hell, have a nice day. With everything Dean came across on a daily basis, with ghosts, demons, lost souls, he knew this one was true. He knew that not even death would give him rest. He'd probably be sent straight to hell. Probably be given a nice suite between the revenant he'd killed last week and the devil himself. Hey maybe he could play cards with Beelzebub. Bastard probably cheated.

Either way, Dean knew whatever the afterlife held, it had to be better than this. If, by some grace of whatever god was out there, death meant going to sleep forever, then Dean was fucking tired. He was ready to close his eyes and just sleep. And if death meant going to hell, burning in firey lakes of sulfur and all that jazz, then Dean was ready. In Dean's mind, it was better to suffer and be surrounded by others who were suffering than to suffer and be surrounded by happiness and knowing you can never have that. You can never wake up and look forward to the day. You can never just get lost in a movie and forget about the stresses of the day. You can never kiss a girl. You can never smile the way Sammy smiles.

Fuck, where was that gun?

The door to the bedroom opened and Dean tensed, but immediately regretted it as pain lanced through nearly every bone in his body, well, at least the ones he could feel. Dean drew his gaze away from the desk drawer. He hadn't really expected Sam to come back so soon. It had only been a few hours. Damn, his brother sure had grown up in the last twelve or so years. When they were younger and Sam got mad, he'd stay gone for hours upon hours. He'd either go shove his nose into some book at a library or sulk so pitifully in their room that Dean couldn't stand to even be near him. It usually didn't end this quickly. My little Sammy, all grown up.

"Um…are you awake?"

Or not.

The voice definitely wasn't Sam's. It surprised him so much that the person coming in the room wasn't Sam that he actually turned his head to make sure his brother hadn't suddenly reverted back into an eleven year old. Because wouldn't that just top off the day nicely. He frowned slightly as he watched Hannah peek her head around the door. When they made eye contact, she smiled widely.

"Oh good, you are," she said and then pushed the door the rest of the way open. Dean let out a quiet sigh, part of him wanting to tell her that now wasn't a good time, never would be a good time, but another part of him was just too tired to argue, too tired to disappoint little girls. So he just sat there and watched her as she came into the room toting a small wagon behind her filled with toys and books and all assortments of little kid's playthings. And though Dean wasn't in the mood, he was slightly curious as to what she was up to. It looked like she had enough stuff to camp out for a while. God he hoped not. Kids got bored easily, right?

"I brought you some toys," she announced, pulling the wagon over to the bed Dean sat beside before she hopped up and crawled to sit next to him. He just sat there, watching her. Who did this kid think she was? Barging in here without asking, being so close to him like she wasn't afraid to touch him, smiling at him like there was something to actually smile about. What? Was she blind? Could she not see the big ass fucking wheelchair he was sitting on? Didn't Sam teach his kids anything?

Hannah didn't seem to notice Dean's scrutiny as she reached into the wagon and began to pull out her toys. She started to scatter them on the bed. She was very particular to her organization and categorization of toys, Dean noticed. The same way he would splay gun parts to clean them, she was now splaying toys to play with them. Must be genetic.

"Here," Hannah said abruptly, holding one of the toys out for him. When he didn't take it, she waggled it in front of him and explained, "This is a Space Cadet Zoomerang Action Figure," she said in a matter-of-factly voice. When Dean didn't say anything, she sighed and tilted her head to the side. "From the show, Ace Cadet 3000?" Dean frowned and opened his mouth to ask if maybe she could play someplace else, but Hannah kept going. "You press this button, and listen to what he says." She pressed a button on the figure's back.

"_I vanquish you to the depths of Zorgon Sector Nine!"_ it announced. What the fuck was that? Is this how low toymakers had sunk? What happened to Power Rangers or Ninja Turtles or Thundercats? He-Man for god sakes.

"You can have that," Hannah said and realizing Dean wasn't going to take the toy, she placed it in his lap. He stared down at it with a glare that clearly said, _how dare you._ But Hannah didn't seem to notice. She went back to sorting through her toys, finding ones that Dean could have. He sighed heavily. Was it too much to ask to be left alone?

"Hannah…" he started, picking up the action figure in his lap, intent on giving it back to her, but she shoved another toy at him. He recognized it instantly and whatever angry words he'd been about to say melted in his mouth. He hadn't expected her to still have _that._

"Magic squirt gun," she said happily, before noticing the action figure in Dean's hand. She took the action figure and replaced it with the squirt gun. "It still works," she said, discarding the action figure and smiling at Dean, but his eyes were on the squirt gun, remembering the night he'd stayed up with Hannah, eating candy, which was completely against Sam's rules, and destroying any evil monster that appeared in the closet, which happened to be two socks, a coat hanger, a dust bunny, and even a two headed acid spitting time warping flesh eating spider had shown up. Hannah had left the task of killing it to Dean, the fearless hunter, but both had screamed when it had jumped on his hand.

The memory twitched the corner of Dean's mouth, the closest he'd come to smiling in weeks. But no use getting hopes up, those days were over. He placed the gun back down on the bed and Hannah looked down at it before turning her solemn gaze up at him. One thing Sam had taught his daughter was how to pull off those damn puppy eyes.

"I don't have much use for them," he told her quietly.

Hannah regarded him for a moment before the smile reappeared on her face. "Okay," she said, shoving all of the toys off the bed and back into the wagon. Dean thought he'd won, but then Hannah pulled something else out. "We can do a puzzle," she told him, jumping off the bed and running to the closet to pull out the plywood that she'd obviously used before to put together a puzzle on. She pulled it towards the bed with some difficulty. When she jumped up on the bed and nearly fell off trying to get the wood up there, Dean found himself reaching out and helping her pull it onto the bed. Great, he couldn't tell her no now. "Me and Pat do puzzles all the time. I'm way better than him."

Dumping the puzzle pieces onto the wood, she began sorting them, explaining her actions to Dean. "We've got to get all the edge pieces out first. It's easier that way." Dean watched her as she sorted all the pieces. He was trying to think of a way to tell her that he really didn't want the company right now when he noticed the puzzle piece in her hand would probably fit to the one right by her knee. He frowned, why couldn't he just tell this kid to go away? Hell, he'd exploded at his own brother, practically blamed all the things that were wrong with the world on his kid brother. So why couldn't he just tell this little mini-succubus to get the hell out of his room? Why was she even here? Didn't she have brothers to be tormenting or neighbors to terrorize?

Hannah looked up at him after a moment. She reached over and patted his arm, surprising him with the gesture. "It's okay, Uncle Dean," and his throat constricted at the Uncle Dean part. It had been forever since he'd heard her say that. And here she was, saying it with such love and compassion.

"Puzzles are hard at first, but you'll get the hang of it."

Oh Universe, you are a cruel, cruel thing you sick bastard. You send a little girl to do a man's job, eh? You couldn't show up and say it yourself, you had to send a little fucking girl with a quiet voice and gentle eyes to say the loudest statement there could possibly be. Smart bastard, that universe. Knowing sometimes being quiet can be the loudest thing in the world.

"Hey, uh…" he had to clear his throat and Hannah just waited for him, the patience of a saint. What to say to this little kid? Thank you would be a start, but thanks for what? Thanks for not treating me like a broken toy? Thanks for looking at me and actually seeing me instead of my bruises? Thanks for smiling? Thanks for starting to put together my puzzle pieces? "That…that piece, right there, could fit with the one in your hand."

Hannah looked down and snapped the two puzzle pieces together. She squealed and looked up at him with glee. "You did it!" she triumphed and Dean nearly choked out a sob at the admiration in her eyes. The difference between Hannah and Sam was that Hannah had all the innocence of a child still left in tact. Sam was grown up, experienced, knew when things were gone to shit. There'd been question in Sam's eyes when Dean had seen him. Questions of, are you okay? Are you going to be alright? Do you hate me? Do you love me? Are you still Dean? But with Hannah, there were no questions. There were never questions in her eyes. The difference between Hannah and Sam was that Hannah still saw Dean as Dean. Uncle Dean who liked gummy bears as much as she did, Uncle Dean who snuck them cookies from the kitchen, Uncle Dean who could vanquish a two headed acid spitting time warping flesh eating spider with minimal screaming. There was never a question that he'd been lost or broken. To her, he was alright. And it made Dean think that maybe, just maybe, he could be.

"See?" Hannah smiled. "You're getting better already."

You've no idea, kiddo.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Figuring Dean had had enough time to cool down, Sam walked out of his home office and nearly trampled over Patrick who was stomping up the hallway looking flustered. Sam had to put a hand on the wall to stop himself from kneeing his son in the face. Patrick just stopped in front of him, ignorant of the danger, and pouted up at him. Sam was exasperated for a minute, having mentally prepared himself to face Dean, which meant his defenses were up, he was ready to raise his voice, get down and dirty. That's not how he managed his kids. He took a second to change his state of mind before looking down at Patrick and raising his eyebrows.

"What's the matter, bud?" he asked, bending down a little so he wasn't looming over the kid.

"Dad," Patrick jutted his chin and Sam wondered how his father had ever been able to stand that gesture. Sam had pulled that move many times, especially into his teens. He tried not to let the fact that Patrick was only eight and had already mastered it bother him too much. "Hannah stole my space man," Patrick said, bobbing his head, looking at Sam like he should be completely furious over the notion that such an atrocity could happen.

Sam smiled. Stolen space men he could handle. He had ignored his brother's voice in his head saying,_ go steal it back,_ and instead said, "Well, go ask her if you can have it back."

"I can't find her," Patrick whined.

"Get Cam to help you look," Sam said, standing up straighter, ready to go talk to Dean now. He was starting to lose the edge he'd built up in preparation for facing his brother. He couldn't go in there unprepared, it would be certain death.

Patrick scoffed and Sam looked down at him again, unable to stop the warning gaze he gave him. Patrick didn't seem fazed. "Cam can't help, he's a baby."

Sam ran a hand over his face. "Then go ask your mother," Sam gave quickly, stepping to the side and getting ready to head towards Dean's room. "I have to go talk to your uncle."

"Uncle Dean isn't very nice."

The words stopped Sam in his tracks. He turned to look at Patrick, seeing that his son's pouting face had gone away and was now replaced with that openness that he loved so much in his children. The face that clearly asked for Sam to explain things to them, to tell them what to do, what's right, what's wrong. And as much as Sam wanted to go into Dean's room and talk to his brother, he couldn't ignore that face, nor the words that had accompanied it.

With a sigh, Sam came over and sat down, leaning against the wall. "Come here," he told Patrick and held out and arm. Patrick sat down next to him and Sam put his arm around him, hugging him close. This was a conversation he knew he'd have to have sooner or later. They had semi had it before, but he'd never sat Patrick down and actually told him what was going on. He knew that Dean's presence was going to affect his children just as much as it affected him. Patrick had been almost as excited as Hannah was to see his uncle. Probably had a lot to do with Hannah going on for days about how great Uncle Dean was and how they were going to have a lot of fun once he got here. And so far, it wasn't much fun. Sam could understand why Patrick would be disappointed.

"Pat," Sam started, wondering how he could explain this to his son. "Do you remember last summer when you slammed your fingers in the car door?" Pat nodded, obviously not remembering anything pleasant. "Remember how much it hurt?" Pat nodded again. "Well, when you weren't very nice for a while after that, right?"

"Because it hurt," Patrick defended, frowning up at Sam.

"I know," Sam said, reassuring him quickly. "And that's okay. Everyone was real forgiving, weren't they?"

"I guess," Patrick said. He looked up after that. "So Uncle Dean isn't nice because he got hurt?"

God, it sounded so awful said like that, didn't it? "Yeah," Sam whispered.

"Well when is he going to get better?" Pat asked and Sam felt his throat constrict. That was a good question. Sam wished he could answer it. He wished he could give Dean a band-aid and a popsicle and everything would be fine again. If only it were that simple.

"I don't know, buddy," Sam answered, squeezing Patrick a little. "Your Uncle Dean got hurt pretty bad. It's gonna take a while. Just give him some time, okay?"

"Okay, Dad," Patrick agreed and Sam leaned down to kiss the top of his head. Patrick growled and wiped it off, making Sam chuckle. "Now go find your sister and ask for you space man back, alright?"

"Alright," Patrick said and got up, running towards the kitchen. Sam sat still for a moment, hands over his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall. Well that totally wrecked his state of mind. It was hard to be mad at his brother, to be ready to yell at him, when you just got done explaining to your son why he shouldn't be disappointed. Sam just didn't know what to do. He wasn't used to this, never had been. Sam had always been the brooder, Dean was always smiling, joking, and sometimes Sam had even classified his brother as seeming aloof. Dean was far from aloof, but his unshakable optimism had always given off that appearance. He'd used to get so angry at Dean sometimes, question how he could be so confident that things would work out, that they'd be okay. Now, he just wished he could have that back. He'd give anything to have that back.

Knowing it was now or never, Sam pushed himself up and started down the hall towards Dean's room. He braced himself just outside the door. All right, Dean, you're going to listen to me and you're going to stop acting like the world has ended and you are going to fucking smile because I can't stand that goddamned frown on your face. Yeah, okay, he could do this. Sam took a deep breath, counted to three inside his head, and flung the door open, prepared to start his tirade, rip in to his brother, fight fire with fire.

The wind was knocked out of Sam's sails as two pairs of strikingly similar innocent eyes turned to look at him. Anything he had to say was immediately squelched inside his throat as he surveyed the scene in front of him. Hannah sat cross-legged on the bed, her braid falling down over her shoulder, puzzle pieces balanced on both of her knees for categorization. Dean sat in his wheelchair, closer to the bed than he had been before, leaned forward, one arm out, hand frozen in place over a puzzle piece Sam assumed he'd just put in. They both had their heads turned towards him, like they'd been caught in the act of a crime. Of all the things Sam expected to find in this room, he'd never thought of this. The last time he'd checked, Hannah had been discouraged when Dean had failed to tell her goodnight. He should of known she recovered quickly.

Sam stood in the doorway, one hand on the door handle, mouth opening and closing in an attempt to find words to say. Dean drew his arm away from the puzzle and leaned back, watching Sam. They probably would have been there all night if Hannah hadn't interrupted the awkwardness.

"Daddy, look," she said and pointed to the puzzle. Sam forcibly had to draw his eyes away from his brother to look at what Hannah was pointing at. "Uncle Dean finished this whole bottom row by himself," she said proudly, giving both her dad and her uncle a grin.

"Did he?" Sam asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yup," Hannah nodded. "He's really good at puzzles."

"Yeah, he is," Sam answered, eyes drifting back to Dean, studying him, surveying him, trying to fucking read his mind. For all Sam could tell, Dean didn't look disturbed at all. The tension in his shoulders had faded a bit and his eyes seemed lighter, less dark, less bleak. What had happened while he was gone? "Hey, Hannah, why don't you go help your Mom make dinner."

"But what about the puzzle?" she immediately protested.

Dean's eyes went to Hannah and Sam bit his lip when he saw the corner of Dean's mouth twitch up into a smile. "You can finish it later, if Uncle Dean feels up to it."

Hannah turned to Dean expectantly. "We'll finish it later, kiddo," Dean said, voice calm, smooth.

"Okay," Hannah grinned and jumped off the bed, scuttling towards the door.

"And give your brother his space man back," Sam said. Hannah scoffed but grabbed the toy from the wagon she'd brought in with her and headed out the door. Sam closed it behind her, leaning up against it, unconsciously not wanting anyone else to come in before he had a chance to talk to his brother, to find out if this person sitting here was actually Dean, his Dean. But Sam couldn't exactly come out and ask that, could he? He'd skirt the issue for now. "If…if she's too much trouble, I can ask here not to come in here."

Dean shook his head lightly. "No, it's okay," he said, eyes downcast, frown crossing his forehead. No, please don't look away from me, Dean. Look at me. I want to see your goddamn eyes. "She's a cute kid." Oh, Dean, is that you?

"Dean…"

"I'm sorry." Sam startled at the quickness, at the force behind the words. He hadn't been expecting that either. "About what I said earlier," Dean explained.

Sam shook his head, forgetting that Dean wasn't looking at him. "It's okay," he whispered, remembering his conversation with Patrick out in the hall. "You're mad. I understand."

"I don't blame you." Jesus, he'd really missed something, hadn't he? He'd come in here expecting a full on war of wills. Hell, he'd been ready to bring out the big guns, maybe even throw in a fist or two. But this? This was throwing him for a loop. He'd didn't know how to react. So he just stood still, letting Dean get out what he needed to get out. "I just…" Dean's face crumpled and he turned his head to the side, letting out a breath. "I don't know. I…I just…" He sighed again and looked up at Sam, locked eyes with him, and sucker punched. "Thank you."

Sam's eyes widened. "You're welcome," he replied back, still a bit confused. Dean nodded and Sam realized his brother was ready to leave it at that. Sam wouldn't have it. They needed to talk. They hadn't really talked about this, other than to yell and lay blame. He came forward and sat on the edge of the bed, searching for the right words. "It'll be okay, Dean."

Dean let out an unbelieving chuckle. "Look at me, Sam," he whispered so quietly that Sam had to lean forward to hear. Dean's voice was so broken, so lost. "What good am I?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, shaking his head. Dean looked away. "Dean…" Dammit, what do you say to that? Time to hit below the belt. "Do you know what I've always admired most about you?" Dean looked up at that, but didn't say anything. Sam wished he would just crack a joke already. But he'd work on one thing at a time. "It was that you never let anything get you down. My whole life, Dean, I've watched you bounce back from everything that got thrown your way."

"I can't exactly bounce back from this one, Sammy."

A pain struck in Sam's heart at the nickname. How long had he been since he'd heard that one? "I'm not talking about physically." Sam sighed. He leaned over, knitting his hands together, not looking at his brother. "I could always count on you to make me laugh," he said quietly. "Whenever things got rough, you were always there. And you always held things together." Sam sat up straight and looked Dean square in the eye, seeing his brother was looking at him, eating up everything Sam was saying. "You always fought back, no matter what. And…I need you to fight this one too. Yeah, things aren't going to be the same, but I know you'll find a way to work with this, Dean. It's what you do. It's who you are."

There. It was said, it was done, and now all he had to do was wait for an answer. Dean looked hesitant, confused. His eyes shifted back and forth, mulling over what Sam had said, trying to process the words. Sam gave him some time. This was heavy stuff. But the fact that Dean was even thinking about it, the fact that he was even listening to what Sam had to say, thrilled Sam to no end. It meant that Dean hadn't given up. He was still holding onto something.

Finally, Dean looked up at Sam, eyes shining with a watery glaze. "I thought I broke you of your talk show addiction," Dean whispered. Sam's grin was the widest he'd had in a long time. He let out a laugh and tilted his head, watching Dean's lips turn up into a small smile.

It was a start.

Sam shrugged. "Sarah likes them." Dean nodded.

There was a soft knock on the door and Sam turned around as Sarah poked her head in. She looked between the two of them, probably making sure they weren't ready to jump each other, before smiling and saying, "Dinner's ready."

"Thanks," Sam told her, giving her a nod. She returned it and closed the door again. Sam turned back to Dean, seeing his brother's eyes trail away from the door. Enough of this drama for today. Dean needed some normal. "So, are you hungry yet? Want me to bring some dinner in here for you?"

Dean turned his head to eye the room before giving a small shake. "No, that's okay," he said. Sam felt his happiness start to leave him. He thought he'd been getting somewhere with Dean. His brother was going to make himself sick if he didn't eat anything. But Dean surprised him again. "I think I'll come out there and eat."

"Oh," Sam said simply. "Okay, yeah sure." He got up to help maneuver Dean towards the door, but his brother batted his hands away and started to wheel himself out.

"This room's kind of minty anyway," Dean said, going out into the hall.

Sam didn't know whether to laugh or cry.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"_Sam? Is that you?" _

"_Not quite."_

_Claws dug deep into his wrists, snapping bone, tearing muscle. Hot breath on his face. Curses in his ears. Screaming and crying and crying and screaming. Pulling. Pulling in opposite directions. One shoulder popped, like cracking a knuckle. White hot agony laced through his body, up his neck, exploding a pain in his head. Tearing at his eyes, sizzling his tears, searing his brain. The other shoulder popped before he had time to recover. Someone screamed. It may have been him. His skin was stretching further than it should have. Tearing down the middle, ripping down the middle, splitting down the middle. It tore and ripped, pulling itself off of muscle, white ligaments snapping like brittle chunks of burning frost. _

_His skin tore off. Came free from his body. Everything burned. He prayed to be numb._

_The world spun and suddenly Sam was leaning over him. Hugging him. Begging him. He was crying blood. Red tears dripped from Sam's eyes, falling onto his face, into his mouth, burning like acid on exposed muscle. _

_Then _It_ came. Standing behind Sam and all he could do was watch as _It_ grabbed Sam by the hair and yanked, flinging him backwards into a wall where his body broke apart. Limbs scattered about on the floor like broken glass. Fingers kept flexing, legs kept kicking, his mouth kept moving. Sam lay on the floor and just looked at him. Help. Please help. All he could do was stare. Watch as _It _tore his brother apart. As Sam was shredded, diced, minced, gone. _

_Then it went after Dad who screamed and fought but died in seconds. _

_Then it went after Sarah._

_Then Hannah and Patrick and Cameron._

_The walls collected their blood and _It_ came over to stand by him. Looking down at him, yellow eyes and bloody lips._

"_You did this. It's your fault. All your fault."_

It_ smiled grabbed his neck. Squeezing. Squeezing. Crushing. He couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe. _

_I can't breathe, can't breathe._

Dean woke with a start. His senses were foggy, distorted, but he could sense a presence standing at the foot of his bed. Ignoring the pain that shot up his back as he twisted and scrambled for the drawer, he pulled it open and grabbed the gun in a fluid movement faster than he thought he still had in him. His whole body screamed fire as he pushed himself up with his broken arm and pointed the gun at the figure in his room with a disgruntled yell of, "You're dead!"

It was only luck that kept him from pulling the trigger.

The shrill scream that greeted him broke through the hazy fog still blocking his vision from seeing clearly. He blinked rapidly, focusing in time to see Hannah's terrified crumble. She broke into sobs and Dean only had time to whisper a quiet, broken, "Hannah," before she ran out of the room, dropping the storybook she had clutched in her hands.

Not even Dean's rapid heartbeat could block out the sounds of Hannah's sobs and footsteps as she ran to her parents' room. Dean held the gun shakily in his hand, eyes fixated on the storybook laying open on the floor. Open to a page where a mother bunny was hugging her children. He couldn't catch his breath. His throat felt like it was closed, constricted to a point it wasn't allowing air in. Against his will, each intake of breath turned into a sob as his eyes refused to leave the picture in the storybook, refused to see anything other than himself pointing a loaded gun, safety off, at Hannah's head.

Dear God.

Dean felt so cold then. Even as he sat there sweating, he shivered, violently, teeth chattering. And he still couldn't breathe. He'd pointed a gun at Hannah. A fucking loaded gun and he'd been ready to squeeze the trigger. His finger had twitched. Just a tiny bit more pressure and he'd be staring at his niece's brains on the opposite wall…

That thought is what did him in. The mental image of Hannah's lifeless body, of a wall splayed in blood. It was too much and Dean put the heel of his palm into his eye, pressing so hard on the bruises, on the cracked cheekbone, trying to stop seeing. He didn't even register the pain as he pressed his broken cheekbone. He couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate. He was panicked. He was choking.

He could have killed her. He could have killed his niece. He was a threat to this family. It could have been Patrick or Cameron or Sarah or Sam standing there and he could have killed them. He's imposing on their lives. He's causing stress and problems and he shouldn't be here. He's a danger to them. He's a danger to Sam and his family. He brings danger with him wherever he goes. And now he's brought it here. To Sam. To the one person he'd dedicated his whole life to keeping danger away from.

He couldn't stay here anymore. He had to go.

For a moment, Dean forgot. For a moment, he tried to swing his legs off the side of the bed so he could get up, pack his stuff, and leave. For a moment, Dean wasn't even thinking. He wasn't even thinking as he sobbed and cried and panicked. He wasn't even thinking as he let the gun rest against his head, forgetting it was in his hand. For a moment, Dean was not Dean. He was a forty year old cripple who'd just pointed a gun at his niece and was now in the middle of one of the biggest panic attacks of his life and instead of over-thinking the small stuff, he stopped thinking at all.

And that was how Sam found him.

Sam had tried to decipher Hannah's hysterical cries. He'd managed to recognize Dean's name and Peter Rabbit, her favorite storybook, and then he heard the word gun and that's all he needed to hear before he was bolting out of bed, Sarah calling out worriedly behind him. A part of him hoped that the gun Hannah was referring to was the magic squirt gun and maybe it had just broken or maybe Dean had done something with it that upset her. But his hopes were squashed as he flung open Dean's door and froze at what he found inside.

Dean sat on the bed, sobbing in a way Sam had never seen him sob before, not after Mom, not after Dad, with a gun to his head.

Sam crossed the room in a matter of seconds. He leapt onto the bed, putting a blind eye to Dean's wounds for a moment as he grabbed Dean under the arms and around the wrist holding the gun and moved it away from his head, twisting Dean's arm until the gun fell uselessly to the floor. And after a moment of just listening to the sound of the gun hitting the floor resonate in the guest room, Sam opened his eyes, not realizing that he'd closed them and turned angrily towards his brother.

"The hell did you think you were doing?" He screamed.

But Sam's anger turned into worry as he realized Dean wasn't even paying attention. He just kept taking shallow, gasping breaths and had his eyes clenched shut. Sam gasped himself, his own heart still racing as he positioned himself in front of his brother on the bed, grabbing the sides of Dean's face. "Dean?" he called firmly but his brother didn't respond. "Dean," Sam said again forcefully.

"Sam?" Sam turned his head towards the door and saw Sarah standing there, eyeing them carefully, Hannah was hiding behind her. "Hannah's pretty scared," Sarah said, her eyes not straying from Dean.

Sam looked towards Hannah, who was watching Dean with trembling lips. "It's okay, Hannah," Sam called out to her before turning back to his brother, absently running a hand through Dean's hair. He needed a haircut, Sam thought randomly. "Uncle Dean just had a bad dream." Hannah didn't say anything. "Sarah, she should go to bed."

"Sam-"

"Sarah!" Sam yelled a bit louder than he meant to. He looked back at her, a small glimmer of apology in his eye. Sarah's face was neutral, but he could tell by her stance that she wasn't happy. They stared at each other for a moment before Sarah gave a fake smile and grabbed Hannah's hand, shutting the door behind her. Sam sighed. He could deal with her later. Right now, Dean needed him. He turned back to look at Dean, who'd stopped sobbing and now just sat breathing and shaking. "Dean?" Sam asked, still holding the sides of Dean's head. He titled his brother's head up to try to catch his eye. "Dean, come on, look at me."

Dean's eyes flickered up to Sam's face. There was barely any recognition there. "I…I can't, Sammy, I can't…" Dean panted, breathing still shaking and sporadic.

"Dean you need to calm down," Sam said, trying to sound calm himself. "Come on, it's okay." Sam rubbed Dean's arm, keeping one hand on the side of Dean's face.

"I can't do this, Sammy, I can't do this," Dean cried.

Sam had to bite his lip. He'd never seen Dean like this. His eyes glanced towards Dean's medication on the side table. The bag hadn't even been opened yet. Dammit. Sam cursed himself for not paying better attention and making sure that Dean took his pills. He was probably hurting something fierce right now. Not to mention the doctors had put him on anti-depressants and with the level they had him on, just having a few days without was probably messing with him pretty bad.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam whispered and came around to sit next to Dean, pulling his brother into him and just sitting there for a moment. He should have known. He should have known it wasn't going to be as easy as that for Dean. Because this? This lack of ability? It was probably one of Dean's worse nightmares. His whole life, Dean had always relied on his strength and body to make things work. He was a fighter and he always used that to keep people safe. To have that suddenly taken away? Sam couldn't even think about it.

"Let's get you back to bed," Sam whispered, pretty sure that Dean was beyond hearing him at the moment. He laid Dean down, crawling over him to get off the bed as he pulled the blankets up. Dean's eyes closed almost instantly, but he was still mumbling and shaking. Sam put his hand on Dean's forehead. He felt kind of hot, feverish a little. He sighed and turned to the pharmacy bag, opening it up and taking out the three different pill bottles. He got the pills he needed and set them on the table before turning to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, but he froze when his toe hit the gun laying on the floor.

How had Dean even gotten a gun in here? "Some things haven't changed," Sam muttered as he leaned down and picked it up. He put on the safety and them emptied the clip. He took both down to his study and put them in his desk drawer. The kids weren't allowed in there. He'd get rid of it later. He got a glass of water from the kitchen and then went back into Dean's room. His brother hadn't moved.

Maneuvering Dean so he could get him to take his pills, he laid him down and tucked him in again before pulling up a chair to sit next to the bed. He leaned over and steepled his fingers, watching Dean's face. Sam wasn't going to lie. It scared the shit out of him to see Dean like that. He'd never, ever seen Dean so out of control of his emotions. He tried to remember what the doctor had said about post traumatic stress and depression and all of the other things to watch out for, but Sam couldn't remember all the details. He'd never thought he'd have to. They'd been through so much in their lives and never had they really dealt with the psychological aspects of what happened to them. Sam guessed this episode wasn't so bad for a forty year old panic attack in the making. It could have been a lot worse.

Dean could have actually pulled the trigger.

Sam sat by Dean's bed for the rest of the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Sam could only remember a few times during his childhood where he'd actually stayed awake all night to keep vigil over his brother. As much as they'd been hurt or injured as kids, very few of them had warranted an all-nighter. Sam had pretty much left that to their father, who would sometimes stay up and watch them all night even when they weren't hurt. But all those times, the times when Dean had concussions so severe he had to be woken every few hours, or the times when Sam had to stay awake and wait for Dean's fever to break, or even the times when Sam had to watch Dean to make sure the nightmares stayed at bay, none of those times of keeping vigil were quite like this one. Because Sam wasn't watching for anything particular; he was just afraid to close his eyes.

Sam wasn't even sure how Dean had gotten the gun into his room. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know. Just the thought of Dean having a gun at all was enough to send Sam into a fit. Both because he didn't like the idea of having a loaded gun where his kids could easily find it and because he didn't like the idea of having a loaded gun when there was nothing to shoot at.

Except yourself.

That's what scared Sam the most, he supposed. Sam had guns. He knew his children knew he had guns. And he knew they would never touch them because as much as he was a loving father, he could also be pretty scary when he was angry and he'd made sure that if they ever touched his guns, he would know and he would be angry. The fact that he kept them hidden high enough in the room that not even he could get to them without standing on a chair was a good indicator that his children would never touch them. But the guns Sam kept were for protection. They were so if anything ever did try to hurt them, he'd at least have a weapon to protect his family with.

Sam really wanted to believe that was why Dean had a gun so close and so loaded. He really wanted to believe Dean had it for protection and maybe that was _part_ of the reason why he had it. But Sam couldn't get the image of Dean sitting there, looking so lost and defeated, with the gun pressed against his head. His own fucking gun pressed against his own fucking head. Whether Dean realized he was doing it or not, Sam didn't even care. It was the fact that it was being done at all. It was the fact that whether Dean was aware he had the gun against his head and had intentions of using it or whether he'd really let down his guard so much that he didn't realize a gun was aimed at his head, whether it was either of those didn't matter. The outcome was still the same. The outcome was still Dean pulling the trigger on himself. And Sam wouldn't have it. Never.

There was giving up and then there was giving up. The difference was whether you give up and just sit in sorrow, waiting for death to find you or whether you can't even handle that and you end it yourself. Sam knew he had made a mistake thinking Dean's version of giving up was the former. It just had never crossed his mind that Dean could possibly think about doing such a thing.

They'd talked about it once, when they were teenagers and things had been getting particularly rocky between Sam and John. It must have been two years before Sam left for college, but he could still remember the conversation clearly. It had been after a hunt for a spirit that had been making people kill themselves. They'd exorcised it and moved on. It should have been the end of it, like it normally was with hunts. The beat the son of a bitch causing problems and they move on. But something about this one had bothered both of them. Maybe it had just hit so close to home.

_"Makes you wish that every suicide was caused by spiritual possession, huh?" Dean had asked out of the blue while they'd been unpacking their things in their bedroom, glad to be home from the hunt. _

_Sam had been caught off guard by the question and years later he would think that was the only reason they'd had the conversation at all. Because he could have just answer with a "yeah." But instead, he chose to answer with, "What, you've never thought of it before?" _

_Dean had thrown a shirt into the hamper before looking at Sam with a strange look on his face. "Thought of what before?" Then a frown crossed his face. An angry frown. "Suicide?" _

_"Well, yeah," Sam shrugged, unable to keep looking at Dean. He'd been confused as to how he'd gotten them into this conversation. _

_"No, I can honestly say I haven't," Dean said, voice stony. "Have you?" He'd slipped it in there, trying to be nonchalant but Sam could hear the desperation hiding behind it. _

_Sam titled his head to the side, "Well-" _

_"Sam!" Dean cut him off, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. Sam had been surprised at the emotion there, looking over at his brother, who'd turned to face him _

_"What?" Sam snapped back, defensively. "It's not like I would have done anything." _

_"You better not," Dean had quietly snuck into Sam's explanation. Sam ignored it for the time being and went on. _

_"I'm just saying, when things get bad, it's just…it's always there as an option." _

_They'd stared each other down for a moment, Sam uncomfortable beneath the look Dean was giving him. He thought maybe he'd have to say something else, but Dean took a deep breath to calm himself before saying, "No it's not." _

_"What?" Sam asked, confused. _

_"It's not an option for you. It's not ever going to_ be _an option for you." _

_Sam sighed. "Dean, I didn't say that I was ever going to do it. I'm not suicidal." _

_"You better not be," Dean muttered. _

_Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, going back to unpacking. "Forget I said anything," he grumbled, annoyed with his brother for not understanding what he was saying. He wasn't going to kill himself, he wouldn't be stupid enough to do that. All he was saying was that if things got bad, suicide was an option. Not one that he would personally take, but sometimes people did take it. God, weren't they talking about possessions? How did this get to be about him? _

_Dean's quiet voice broke his reverie. "Sammy, if things ever get that bad, you come to me." _

_Sam looked up. Dean had finished unpacking and was standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, watching Sam with a skeptical frown on his face. Sam was ready to blow him off again, to just tell Dean that he was overreacting and misunderstanding and being a stupid protective older brother again, but the look on Dean's face, the emotion in his eye, made Sam hold back all those explanations, hold back all the teasing, all the complaining. Dean's worry was genuine. Sam hated that it was directed at him. _

_"Dean, I would never do something like that, man," Sam answered truthfully. _

_"I know," Dean answered and Sam frowned. If he knew, why the hell was he making such a big deal out of it? "Because I'd never let you." And then he'd left, leaving Sam standing still in the middle of the room, slightly surprised, but mostly feeling a rush of affection towards his brother. But he'd never tell Dean that. _

_When he'd gone down to dinner five minutes later, Dean was back to teasing him and tormenting him in the way older brothers do. And it was like they'd never had the conversation, but both brothers were well aware that they had._

The door to Dean's bedroom opening broke him from the memory. He turned to see Sarah standing there with the phone in her hand. Sam frowned and looked at the clock, realizing it was already eight in the morning. He'd sat up with Dean all night. Standing up, stretching his aching legs, he walked to the door and took the phone from Sarah, giving her a smile, remembering their small spat the night before. She smiled back, genuinely, which made Sam feel better.

"It's Kirby," she whispered as Sam put the phone to his ear. He nodded. Kirby was a co-worker at the law firm where he worked. Sam wondered what he wanted. He'd taken a week off of work, telling them he may need more. They seemed to understand when he explained about his brother.

"Hey Kirby," Sam said into the phone, closing Dean's door so they wouldn't wake up.

"Sam, man, sorry to call so early on your day off," Kirby said.

"It's not a problem, I was up anyway," Sam answered, watching as Sarah went back into the kitchen. Sam smelled bacon and eggs. "What do you need?"

Kirby sighed and Sam could already guess the answer. "The partners are really laying into the McAffery case. We need to finalize some details and no one knows this case better than you. I'm sorry, I know you got a lot going on but-"

"Kirby, I don't think I'm going to be able to come in-"

"Sam, the defense just hired some big hotshot attorney from Jersey. We really need you."

Sam sighed. "I'll see what I can do, Kirby, but I can't make any promises."

"That's all I'm asking for," Kirby answered. "I hope to see you in here, man."

"I'll try," Sam said. "Good luck."

When he hung up the phone, Sarah was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She took the phone from him and hung it up while Sam ran his hands through his hair, thinking about what he should do. They really needed this case to be as solid as possible. It was going to be a difficult one. And Sam really did know a lot about it, he'd been working on it for months. "You going in?" Sarah asked.

"I don't know," he shook his head. "I don't want to leave Dean alone."

Sarah reached out and straightened his shirt, more a nervous habit than anything. "Because you're afraid for him?" she paused. "Or because you're afraid for us?"

Sam frowned. "What?"

"He had a gun, Sam," she said in a low voice.

Sam guffawed and looked straight into her face. He couldn't really believe what he was hearing. Or maybe he didn't want to believe. He needed Sarah to be behind him on this, he needed her support. He couldn't do this if she wasn't helping him along. "Yeah, he had a gun, but he would never hurt you or the kids," Sam stammered. "He had it pointed at himself when I went in there, he was just confused last night." Sarah smiled, but Sam didn't seem to register it, nor the look in her eyes. "It's one thing for Dean to want to kill himself, and trust me I'm going to talk to him about that, but he would never hurt anyone else. I think that was his whole reason for doing all this and that's exactly what he wants to avoid and-"

"Sam," Sarah said and Sam stopped, noticing her smile for the first time. He frowned and tilted his head to the side. "I was just making sure."

Sam nodded, understanding dawning on him. She was testing him. Sly, Sarah. "You were just making sure," Sam repeated.

Sarah laughed and stood on her toes to kiss him. With their faces close together, she said, "This is never going to work if you can't trust him to be with us."

"The only person I can't trust him with is himself," Sam whispered back to her.

"He's not going to be by himself," she assured him. "I'll make sure he's still here when you get back."

Sam smiled and kissed her again. "Have I told you how awesome you are lately?"

She laughed and pushed away from him, turning him towards their room so he could change clothes. "Get to work," she said and then discreetly smacked his ass.

Sam jumped a little and turned to grin at her. "Oh, kinky," he said and she laughed. He turned back to the stairs and headed up to get changed. His smile faded as he got to the top of the stairs, his thoughts drifting back to his brother and all the things that were going wrong.

Dean, you _better_ be here when I get back.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Dean could smell bacon and somewhere beyond the fog of near-consciousness, Bugs Bunny was arguing about hunting season with Daffy Duck. For a moment, and it was just a brief moment, Dean thought he was home. The only real home he'd ever known. The home where Mary Winchester would put a plate of bacon and eggs down in front of him and they'd curl up and watch cartoons until it was time to feed Sammy. He was four years old again and everything was perfect. Nothing could hurt him.

He wasn't scared.

But that moment slipped by quickly as he remembered where he was and what he'd done. The horror of what he'd done. Hannah's terrified face, the blinding grief afterwards, and some fuzzy images of Sam and Sam's voice lingering without actually being heard. And when he remembered what happened, Dean thought about just keeping his eyes closed forever. Why did he have to wake up to this life? This life that was unfair, unpredictable, and unstable. He wished he could have something else. But he couldn't really think of what.

The bed dipped and for a moment, Dean was confused. There was someone sitting at the end of his bed, but with what happened the previous night, he couldn't understand who it was. It was too light to be Sam or Sarah, and why would the kids come back in here? Surely they were banned from his room forever now. Sam wouldn't trust his children with a man who pointed guns at them. Hell, Dean didn't trust himself to be with them anymore. How could he have done that? Jesus, why had he done that?

Curiosity got the better of him and he frowned before tugging his eyes open, realizing just how sore and puffy they still were. Damn, he hadn't cried like that since he was a child. And even then, it had never really been that bad. Pushing away the thoughts of childhood, since they seemed to be getting him nowhere, Dean worked on focusing his vision and when he could see clearly, his eyes widened in surprise at what he found.

Hannah was sitting at the end of his bed. She was wearing a black t-shirt that Dean recognized. He'd sent it to her for Christmas last year. Her hair was pulled back into a braid and she had on ripped jeans. A regular metal-head. Good for her. She had a bowl of cereal balancing in her crossed legs as she was watching cartoons with an intense look on her face. Dean turned his head to the side, wondering where he'd smelled bacon, and was surprised to find a tray of food sitting on the table beside the bed.

Well, he hadn't really been expecting that.

Dean had expected Sam to be standing over him, reaming him out for more things than Dean cared to think about. Or maybe Sarah standing in the doorway, his bags already packed, telling him to get out of her house. Or maybe even doctors in white suits here to take him away to some asylum where he belonged. Crazy, crippled Uncle Dean. That's what he'd expected. Not this, breakfast in bed, "I'm safe when I sit at the foot of my awesome Uncle Dean's bed" sort of treatment. It made no sense. Where the hell was Sam anyway?

Deciding that this needed further investigation, because it was entirely possible that he'd woken up in a different dimension, Dean slowly pushed the covers down, and then braced himself. When he had gathered up his strength, he pushed his upper body up, grimacing and gasping when pain laced up his spine. It took away his breath for a moment, the unexpectedness of the pain. Ouch, that hurt.

Hannah turned around upon hearing his grimace and Dean immediately straightened his face and pulled himself the rest of the way up, leaning against the headboard, ignoring the way his back was spiking with pain in rhythm with his heartbeat. It died down after a moment, to which Dean was eternally grateful. He hated that damn pain. But he masked it, because he didn't want Hannah to see. The poor kid already had enough to worry about.

Quickly finishing off her mouthful of cheerios, Hannah put her bowl down and turned around so she was facing him, a grin on her face. "Morning Uncle Dean," she chirped happily, again taking Dean by surprise. He looked around the room, wondering if he'd missed something. This kid was way too cheerful and warm to a person who'd nearly killed her the night before. "My Mommy made you breakfast and I brought it in here so you could eat it in bed. It might be kind of cold, but we can always put it in the microwave."

"Uh…thanks," Dean stammered, eyeing her as if he expected her to grow fangs and pounce any moment. Had she completely forgotten about the loaded gun he'd pointed at her face? Or the threat of, "You're dead!" he'd screamed at her with venom.

"I'm wearing the t-shirt!" Hannah went on, seemingly unaware of Dean's confusion. She crawled up the bed so she was sitting next to Dean's legs, closer to him than he'd thought she'd ever get again. "Daddy says I look like a rock star. I think that would be fun, don't you?" She didn't give him time to answer. "Sometimes I wish I could quite ballet and learn how to play the guitar, ooh, or the drums but Daddy says that there's not enough Tylenol in the world for me to do that."

Dean snorted despite himself. If indeed this wasn't some alternate dimension he'd woken up into, he knew what he was going to get his niece for Christmas next year. A nice big drum set. It could be a family deal and he'd send Sam some earplugs. Speaking of Sam…

"Where's your Dad?" Dean asked after clearing his throat. His throat felt scratchy. He wondered exactly how long he'd cried last night.

Hannah pouted and laid over Dean's legs lazily. A spike of pain flashed through his heart when he realized he couldn't feel her small body, but he quickly pushed that aside. Because quickly following at the heels of the pain was a tremendous relief and joy that Hannah was this comfortable around him, despite everything. He'd been grateful of her lack of a feeling to treat him like glass before, and he was ten times as grateful now. This is what he needed.

"Daddy had to go to work," she told him, dejected. "He didn't want to go, but Mommy made him. Mommy and me are holding down the fort," she said the last part in a deep impression of a grown-up voice. Dean quirked a small smile. God, he loved this kid.

"He was probably pretty upset, huh?" Dean asked quietly, watching as Hannah eyed him. She seemed to be thinking about what to say to him.

Then she shrugged. "I guess," she said, tracing the stitching on the quilt with her fingers. "But he didn't seem mad." Dean nodded, though he didn't quite understand. Why the hell was no one mad? Dean knew he would be, if he wasn't feeling so damn miserable about it all. But Hannah's head lifted up slightly and she looked right at him, maturing a few years right in front of Dean's eyes. "I didn't tell them, you know."

Dean frowned, unsure what she meant by that. "What?" he asked softly.

"I didn't tell them what you said," she whispered and Dean's heart skipped a beat. He looked into her eyes for any sign that she was afraid or upset at what had happened, but he couldn't find any. "Daddy doesn't like it when Danny, he's the boy who lives down the street, points his dumb BB gun at me or Pat or Cam. He gets really mad and he calls Danny's mom and Danny gets in trouble. I thought that you would get in trouble too if I told Daddy that you pointed it at me. So I didn't tell them."

Dean's heart was beating quickly. He gripped the sheets covering his legs tightly and the two of them stared at each other for a moment, assessing each other's moods. Dean finally whispered a quiet, "Hannah…" But the girl wouldn't let him say anything.

"I didn't want you to get in trouble, Uncle Dean," she said pleadingly, like he had been about to yell at her for not telling. "Danny always gets really sad when he's in trouble and I don't want you to be sad anymore." Dean felt his chest tighten up and his eyes burned slightly, but he held back the tears, as if he even had any left. "I don't like it when you're sad."

Smiling, trying to fight back the flood of emotion coursing through him, he reached out a hand and patted Hannah's knee affectionately. "Thanks, kiddo," he said, brokenly. "But, that was a very…dangerous thing for me to do. And I shouldn't have done it. No one should ever…do that." He paused and found her looking at him intently. God, what was he doing? "You know I'd never hurt you," he told her, voice stern and serious. She nodded in understanding. Good. "I was just…confused."

"Were you having a bad dream?"

_The flesh was torn from his body. Teeth sank into his skin. Sammy was somewhere screaming._

"Yes," he said sullenly. "You startled me. I thought…I thought you were the bad guy," he told her something she could relate to.

Hannah looked like he'd just said the most ridiculous thing ever. "I'm not the bad guy, Uncle Dean." Then she looked thoughtful and she perked up. "I'm the sidekick, remember?'

Dean let out a small chuckle and grinned at her, truly grateful to have someone like this kid in his life. "Oh yeah," he said. How was it that an eleven year old kid could make things seem not as bad as they really were? How could she be the voice of reason in all of this? It didn't make sense, but then again, nothing was really making a lot of sense anymore to Dean. Things were beyond reason, so he guessed a child's reasoning was good enough for him. "I forgot."

"Silly," Hannah giggled and reached out to grab Dean's hands. She played with his fingers, feeling his ring and sizing their hands. It was something she'd always done as a toddler and the motion warmed Dean's heart. He just watched her, letting her have her way with his hand. She looked up at him again and her face was a bit more cautious now. "I heard Mommy and Daddy talking today," she told him quietly.

"Oh yeah?" he asked, wondering where this was going. She nodded.

"Were you really going to kill yourself, Uncle Dean?"

The question caught him off guard and immediately his entire body stiffened. He stared at her, Hannah's soft brown eyes watching him, patiently waiting for some sort of answer. He didn't know what to say. He was ready to protest, to tell her that there was no way in hell he'd ever do something like that. He'd practiced this speech so many times in his head over the past couple weeks, thinking about what he'd say if a nurse or someone caught on to his plans. But here, sitting in the bed, with Hannah still holding his hand, moving his fingers, trusting him even when he didn't trust himself, he couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her. He couldn't tell her that he was okay, that he hadn't planned on it. Because he had. He'd had it all planned out. From that first night in the hospital, it was always an option, just like Sam had said when they were teenagers. It was always a Plan B. And Hannah trusted him and she'd proven that he could trust her. And there were no secrets between them, because they were Uncle and Niece, Super Hero and Sidekick, right Uncle Dean? So he told her the truth.

"Maybe," he answered. It was the most truthful thing he could say. He wasn't sure if he would have actually gone through with it last night if Sam hadn't come down and stopped him. He wasn't sure what would have happened. He hadn't been thinking clearly, that's for sure.

Hannah frowned slightly, but it was more of a frown out of confusion than a frown out of anger or hurt. "How come?" she asked.

Yeah, how come? Huh, Dean? Tell her why. Why would you do that? Why would you go through with that? Why did you want things to end? Because you're a cripple? So what? Tell her, Dean. Tell her.

"I don't know," he whispered, working up the courage. He swallowed nervously and looked her in the eye to say, "I'm scared, I guess."

And there it was.

The god awful truth of it all. The reason Dean Winchester was ready to throw in the gloves. He was scared. Fucking scared. Not of what happened to him. Not really of what will happen to him. He was scared of what he wasn't able to do. He was scared that he'll let his brother down when he needs him. He was scared that he won't be able to protect the people he loves. He was scared that he'll be a burden on everyone, that he'll become just another headache for Sam and for Sarah. That they'll suddenly have a fourth child to take care of. He was scared of the way this child was looking at him, like he could take care of everything, because he couldn't. He couldn't take care of things. He couldn't even take care of himself and that scared him. Fucking scared him shitless.

"Why are you scared?" Hannah asked. And Dean didn't know how to tell her. He just shook his head and looked down at their hands. She squeezed his fingers and the motion was so mature he nearly broke down again right there and then. But he managed to hold himself together. "Is it because of what happened to you?" she whispered, as if it were some unspoken secret. He supposed it was. He guessed Sam and Sarah had told the kids not to mention it.

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he whispered back.

Hannah looked contemplative for a moment before she suddenly smiled. He frowned, wondering what she had in mind. "Stay right here," she told him. He nodded his agreement, not really knowing where she thought he'd go to. She turned and jumped off the bed, running out of the room. Dean was a bit surprised at the sudden feeling of loneliness he felt as soon as she left. He sat quietly, staring at the door, waiting for her return. It took a couple minutes, but finally Hannah came racing back in, with something hidden behind her back.

When she crawled onto the bed, Dean caught sight of something furry in her hands but couldn't quite see what it was.

"Okay," she told him. "I have a present for you."

"You do?" he played along.

Hannah nodded and brought out her present from behind her back. It was a teddy-bear, old and worn, raggedy, with an eye missing and a hole where its left ear should be. It was clear to Dean that at one time, it had been someone's favorite toy. He looked up at Hannah after studying the bear for a moment and found her grinning. "Daddy gave me this bear," she said. Dean looked back down at it. "Whenever I get scared, I hug this bear and it's like I'm hugging my Daddy."

An image of John flashed in front of Dean's eyes and he felt tears swell up. It had been a while since he'd felt a longing for John's comforting arms, for his soothing voice, for a pat on the back or a flash of a grin or even just a, "It's okay, Dean," from his father. It had been so long. And looking at the old bear, the rugged, worn, battle-scarred bear, it reminded Dean of John so much that he couldn't help a tear that slipped down his cheek.

Hannah shoved the bear closer to him, guiding one of Dean's arms around it so he was hugging it to his chest. "It really works," she told him.

He could almost hear his father's voice. "It's okay, Dean."

Dean let out a half sob half laugh and reached up to pet the teddy bear, watching as Hannah smiled warmly at him.

"I know it does," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Sam pulled into his driveway and idled for a moment, staring at the front door of his house. A week ago, at this very moment, Sam would have found refuge behind that door. He would have been able to walk through that heavy door and look forward to hearing his children playing, look forward to getting a kiss from Sarah, look forward to sitting down on the couch and just letting all the worries of the day wash away. A week ago, at this very moment, this house would have been Sam's stronghold.

Now, Sam's stronghold, his moment of relaxation where he felt like he could breathe easily, was here, inside his car, driving from one chaotic battle scene to the next. And in all truth, he was more scared of this one than he was the one at the office. He could handle court cases and disgruntled lawyers. He could handle juggling law and morals and politics. What he couldn't handle were the moments when he stopped to think about how bad things had gotten, how utterly horribly things must be, for Dean, his big brother, the guy whose will to live was coupled only by his knack for getting in trouble, to put a gun against his head and be ready to pull the trigger. It hurt to think about such things.

But he had to come to terms with it. Once he came to terms, then he could start to deal with it and he could try to help. Because there was absolutely no way he was letting Dean go out like that. Not after everything his brother had lived through. He wouldn't let him die by his own hand.

Sam held his breath for a second, gathering up the strength and the will to walk into his own house. He let it out slowly and nodded to himself before opening the car door and heading inside. The first thing he noticed once he was inside was the lack of high pitched squealing and giggles of his children that normally met him when he came in. He frowned. Something was not right in his household. Maybe Sarah sent them to stay with a friend. That would give him some time alone with his brother. Yeah, that had to be the answer.

Sarah poked her head out of the kitchen and smiled at him as he set down his briefcase and walked over to her. "How was work?" she asked, kissing him on the cheek.

"It was work," he answered back, looking around his house again before his eyes fell back to his wife. "How is he?"

Sarah shrugged. "He's been in his room all day," she said simply, though there was a small spark in her eye that Sam was a bit leery of. "What are you going to say to him?"

"I don't know yet," Sam answered truthfully as they walked down the hall and made it to Dean's bedroom door. Sam stared at it coldly. "Well, do what you have to," she said, squeezing his arm before heading back to the kitchen. "Yell at him. Order him around if that's what it takes." Sam snorted as she disappeared. This family seemed to say that a lot.

Bracing himself for whatever was behind that door, Sam reached for the doorknob and swung it open, ready for a full on assault by his brother. Insults, curses, the cold shoulder, anything. Sam was ready for it.

What Sam was not ready for was the addition of three extra adversaries in Dean's room. He was instantly overpowered and they didn't even have to move a muscle.

Hannah, Patrick, and Cameron were sitting on Dean's bed, with Dean sitting in his wheelchair beside them, dressed and cleaned up and as decent looking as Sam had seen him since the accident. The puzzle they were circled around was nearly finished. On each of their laps was a bowl of ice cream, topped with gummy bears and gummy worms. And each of their faces were turned towards Sam, wide eyed, like deer in a headlight. Sam knew he must have been mirroring their expression.

"Daddy!" Cameron exclaimed and clambered to his feet, nearly tripping off the bed in his haste. Sam reached forward and caught him, allowing the boy to give him a squeeze before squirming back down onto the bed, jumping a little before both Patrick and Hannah scolded him for messing up the puzzle.

"Look, Dad," Hannah said next, pointing to the puzzle. Sam watched Dean for a second, noticing the way his brother lowered his eyes, obviously unsure of how to act in this sort of situation. It was new to the both of them. Sam finally tore his eyes away from his brother and looked at the puzzle. "We're almost finished."

Patrick harrumphed in typically eight-year-old fashion and gave his Dad an annoyed look. "We would have been finished but Cam jumped on the puzzle and we had to redo half of it."

Cameron pouted, his whole face taking part in his frown. But Dean spoke before the younger boy could protest. "But he made up for it by getting us ice cream." He absently reached for a puzzle piece and snapped it into place, his eyes still not rising to meet Sam's.

"Yeah but he dropped two of the bowls," Patrick protested.

"It's the thought that counts," Dean told him, giving a small smile to Cameron, who squealed in delight.

Sam was lost for a moment, watching the scene in front of him. This wasn't right. Not just because Dean had nearly shot himself the previous night, not just because Hannah had been scared to death, not just because they were all eating ice cream in the middle of the day, though Sam would scold them on that later. This wasn't right, because it was so…normal. While Sam was at work, Dean had returned to being Uncle Dean. He didn't quite understand how that could happen without him being there.

But just watching his children interact with him, watching as they played and laughed and joked with him, Sam thought that maybe this was exactly what Dean had needed. He'd needed normal. He'd needed to be treated like he was okay, like there wasn't anything wrong. And Sam hadn't been able to give him that. He felt bad that he would have to take that away again. He'd have to take away this happy moment from Dean. Because as much as Sam wanted Dean to have these happy moments, he also needed to know what had happened last night and whether or not it would happen again. Leaving these questions unasked wasn't a risk Sam was willing to take.

"Guys, why don't you go clean your bowls and get ready for dinner," Sam said softly, watching Dean continue to put the puzzle together. He was purposely avoiding Sam's eyes.

"But we're not hungry, Dad," Hannah said, scooting a bit closer to her uncle. Sam found the movement endearing.

"Well, that's too bad," Sam said with a forced lightness to his voice. "I thought I smelled your Mom making chili."

"Chili!" Cameron cheered before flailing his arms and jumping off the bed, leaving his bowl behind in his excitement. One down.

Patrick looked torn. He patted his stomach, acting like he was feeling how full it was. "Well, I guess I can make a little room for chili," he said, grabbing his bowl and following his brother.

Hannah looked less enthusiastic. She clung to Dean's arm for a moment. Sam tried to think of something to use to reason with her, but Dean beat him to it. "Hey, kiddo, we'll finish this puzzle after dinner, huh? Then afterwards, maybe we can convince your Dad to let us watch some Kung-Fu movies."

"Alright," Hannah said, though she obviously wasn't happy about leaving Dean's side. She picked up her bowl and Cameron's bowl that was left behind. Then she crawled back over to Dean and pecked him on the cheek before walking out of the room. Sam smiled at the slight flush that settled on Dean's cheeks.

Once they were alone in the room, an awkward silence fell over them. Sam's gusto over confronting his brother had sort of fizzled out. He didn't really know where to begin. So he sat himself down gently on the bed, eyeing the few puzzle pieces that were left. He picked one up and softly put it in its place before looking up at Dean, who'd sat back in his wheelchair, looking uncomfortable. He decided to just go for it.

"What happened last night?" he asked as gently as he could.

"I don't know," Dean answered dismissively. He still wouldn't look at him.

Sam tried a different route. "Why did you have the gun?"

"I don't know," Dean repeated, softer, like he wasn't paying attention to the questions. But Sam knew he was. Sam knew he heard every word loud and clear. He was just choosing not to answer.

"You really scared Hannah," Sam said quietly. Dean didn't say anything after that and Sam didn't know what to do. He could start yelling, he could start screaming and insulting and demanding of his brother, but he didn't have the heart. Not right now, at least. They needed to talk about this, but Sam didn't know how to get it started. He sighed and stood up, ready to leave the room for a second and gathering his thoughts before coming back in to interrogate his brother.

"I had it all planned."

Sam froze at Dean's quiet whisper. He stared down at his brother, but Dean's eyes were faraway. Sam knew that look. Dean was confessing. Sam couldn't push, or Dean would close up and he may never get him to open up again. So he sat down again on the bed, facing his brother, showing Dean that he was ready to listen. Because maybe Dean needed to say it as much as Sam needed to hear it.

"In the hospital, after…" Dean licked his lips and didn't finish that thought. "I had it all planned. I was just trying to decide which gun to use. Then you showed up and I couldn't do it. But now, I don't know. I don't know if I want to or if…" Dean's face fell and the last words were whispered brokenly. "I just don't want to be a burden anymore."

It was quiet after that. It stayed quiet for a good couple minutes. Each of them lost in their own thoughts. It was Sam who finally spoke.

"You're an idiot," he said. Dean looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time, obviously surprised at Sam's words. Sam was a little surprised himself, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. "You'd really do that to me?" Sure, it was a little selfish, but Sam needed to say it. It was the only way he knew how to get to Dean. "You really want to hurt me that bad? Or, forget about me. You'd really want to hurt my family, who loves you? My kids? You're nephews you barely even know? Hannah? You would really do that to them?"

"Sam…" Dean's voice broke and he looked around the room as if he were trying to find an answer. "No, god, I don't want to hurt you but…look at me, Sammy," his eyes pleading with Sam, breaking both their hearts. "Look how much trouble I've caused you already. I won't be a burden, Sam, I won't."

"You're not," Sam said sternly.

Dean looked away again, his breath hitching. "I don't know if I can do this," he whispered and looked back up. "I can handle a lot of things, but this isn't one of them. I don't know how to do this."

Sam scooted over on the bed, swinging his legs off the edge so they were touching Dean's. He leaned in close to his brother and looked him straight in the eye, the close contact obviously surprising Dean, but Sam counted it as a win that Dean didn't flinch away. "First of all, no one expects you to know how to handle this, Dean. No one would know how to handle this alone. But that's why you're here. So you won't be alone. So you have people who can help you, Dean. And yes, that means you're going to have to learn how to accept help too." Dean gave a half smile at the humor, to which Sam full out grinned. "Secondly, you're not a burden. You never were and you never will be. You're my brother. Maybe sometimes it seems like brothers and burdens are the same thing, but I've learned to live with them."

"Ass," Dean chuckled, though he was still fighting back tears.

"Again, brothers, burdens, and asses, they're all in the same category." Dean gave a small laugh and Sam sat back, smiling to himself stupidly. He couldn't help it. "We're gonna get through this Dean, you and me. Or did you forget what a great team we make?"

Dean gave a small shake of his head, his smile widening a bit. "Haven't forgotten."

"Good," Sam told him. "Now, just so we're clear, if you ever, and I mean EVER, have thoughts like that again, you come to me, okay? Because no matter what I said when we were kids, this?" Sam waved his hand around the room, not really sure what he was pointing to, but referring to the events of the previous night, "is not an option." Dean nodded and Sam squeezed his shoulder. "So we're good?"

"Getting there," Dean answered. Sam sighed and leaned back, not sure if he should go on or not. This whole conversation was a lot shorter than he'd picture it in his head. "You know, Dad would probably smack us both upside the head if he saw us now."

Sam smiled, finding the mental image somewhat amusing considering he'd been thinking of doing the same thing earlier that day. "Yeah, probably."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment. Maybe they were okay now. Sam knew Dean wouldn't be okay in just a day, but he was on his way. So maybe things were finally working out. Maybe things were all downhill from here.

"I could smack you if you really wanted the sentimental value."

Oh yeah, definitely smooth sailing.

"Idiot."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Dean was in the living room playing army men with Patrick and Cameron when Sam got home from picking Hannah up from ballet. Sam couldn't say he was really surprised. Since they'd finished the puzzle, army men had become their favorite game to play. Sam guessed it had something to do with Dean's ability to make it so authentic. He couldn't count how many times in the past few days he'd tripped over those damn green plastic men. Where the hell had they come from anyway? Sam thought they would have stopped making those toys a long time ago. But apparently not.

Sam wouldn't complain though. In the past few days, Dean had shown incredible improvement. He still had his down times. Sam would still sometimes catch him staring at a spot on the floor, lost in his own world and it usually took some coaxing to bring him back out. And Dean would still get discouraged over some things, like not being able to reach the plates on the top shelf when he offered to make lunch for the kids. But he was getting better. He smiled more. And that look was back in his eyes. That incredible "Dean" look that Sam always thought of when he pictured his brother. That "Everything's okay and everything will BE okay" look.

It was the look Sam had been longing for, for years.

"Hi Uncle Dean!" Hannah chirped as she pushed open the front door and practically galloped through the hallway towards her room, ready to change out of her leotard and into her "Rock-Star" clothes, which she'd been wearing more and more. Sam had a feeling that he'd lost control of that aspect of his daughter. He didn't mind really. As long as there were no tattoos or piercings.

"Hey kiddo," Dean called as she zipped by him.

Sam grinned at the scene in his living room. Dean sat in the middle, with army men completely surrounding him, some laying fallen on his wheelchair, one hanging by some dental floss from one of his handles. Patrick lay on his stomach on one side of the room, commanding his small armies, while Cameron sat on the couch, an army man in each hand, grinning like a fool at the battle that was unfolding.

"Hi, Daddy," Cameron said cheerfully before turning back to play. Dean glanced up at Sam and smiled before doing the same. Sam chuckled and went to deposit his keys and briefcase in his office before heading to his bedroom to change into something more comfortable.

When he came out again, he stopped in the kitchen and kissed the back of Sarah's neck as she was cooking spaghetti noodles on the stove. She gave a small sound of satisfaction before turning around and holding a spoon with sauce out for him to taste. He tasted it and raised his eyebrows playfully. Sarah shook her head, grinning, and put the spoon back.

"How was your day?" he asked, wrapping his long arms around her and holding her close. "Anything interesting happen?"

"Some of the church ladies stopped by," Sarah said.

Sam frowned and couldn't help but tense slightly. He'd been dreading the church ladys' arrival. He'd only gone with Sarah to church a few times, and those ladies could be awfully gossipy and critical. He wasn't sure how they would handle Dean, or how Dean would handle them.

"Oh yeah?" Sam asked hesitantly. "How'd that go?"

"Dean managed to charm them into making us an apple pie for after dinner tonight," she said with a laugh. Sam grinned. He knew he shouldn't have worried so much. "I think he really made an impression on them."

"Dean has a tendency to do that," Sam agreed and kissed Sarah's forehead. They stayed like that for a moment, just unwinding from the day, before Sam finally pulled away and heading towards the living room again. "I'll get the kids ready for dinner," he said.

"Good, it'll be done in a few minutes."

Sam headed back out into the living room. As soon as he entered, Dean looked up and then motioned for Patrick and Cameron to come over to him. "Hey, Cameron, let's give your dad a laugh," Dean said and Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew they'd been up to mischief. "Show him what I taught you."

"Oh yeah!" Cameron said with glee and ran awkwardly in front of Dean, while Patrick stood next to him, smiling and nearly bouncing with anticipation. Sam wondered if he should be worried. "Watch, Daddy!"

"I'm watching," Sam told him.

"Cam, commando!" Patrick said in a deep, military-like voice. Sam was a little surprised to find that it sounded like John. But his surprise didn't last as Cameron dropped to his stomach and did a commando roll straight across the floor. It was actually pretty well executed, except for Cameron's open mouth and the tongue sticking out of the corner. Not to mention the giggling from both his sons as Cameron made his way from one side of the room to the other.

Dean gave a triumphant laugh as Cameron crawled to his feet and started jumping around, too giddy from the performance to sit still. Patrick looked up at Sam. "Did you like it, Dad?" he asked. "Uncle Dean taught us so that when we're in the trenches, we can be p'pared!"

Sam resisted the urge to laugh as he looked up at Dean with a forced look of annoyance on his face. Dean merely shrugged, though it was obvious he was pleased with himself. "You never know when you'll suddenly find yourself in a trench," he stated simply.

"Yeah!" Cameron called, now bouncing around Dean's wheelchair like a rabbit. "We need to be p'pared!" he said in a sing-song voice. Dean's grin grew wider and finally Sam did give into the temptation to roll his eyes.

"Well I think it's time for the soldiers to get ready for dinner," Sam said, eyeing all the toys lying around. "But I think they should clean up their mess first."

"What are we having?" Patrick asked, getting down on his knees as he began scooping up the army men, placing them back in the bucket that sat near the couch.

"Spaghetti," Sam told him, doing his part in the cleanup as he picked up a discarded soldier from the opposite side of the couch and tossed it in the bucket.

"Pasgetti!" Cameron yelled excitedly and Sam laughed, wondering where his son had gotten all his energy. Dean had probably been feeding them gummy bears all afternoon. Great, so when they were up all night on a sugar buzz, Dean could stay up with them while Sam got to sleep. It was only fair.

Once all the army men were collected and placed in the bucket, Patrick and Cameron carried it together back to their shared room. Sam watched them go, smiling as he realized how much his sons reminded him of Dean and him when they were kids. They'd done the same thing with their army men. And carried their bucket the same way.

Sam turned to Dean, who was working to get the dental floss they'd used as a noose off of his wheelchair. Sam came forward and helped him with it, distracting Dean's annoyed look with a question. "I hear you conned some old ladies into making you a pie today," Sam said.

"Damn straight," Dean said triumphantly. "If those ladies are gonna come around here and snoop, might as well set them to work."

Sam outright laughed. "You know, I've known those ladies going on four years and I never once was able to get a pie out of them."

"What can I say?" Dean shrugged again. "Old ladies love this face."

Sam laughed again, but couldn't bicker further as Sarah called him from the kitchen. He looked down at his brother, who had a stupid grin on his face. It was Sam's turn to shrug. "I'm being summoned," he said and turned towards the kitchen.

"Whipped!" Dean called out to him and laughed outright as Sam held up a hand but caught himself just in time to save from flipping Dean the bird.

Dean sat quietly for a moment, smiling. Today had been a good day. One of the best he'd had in a long time. You know, maybe Sam was right. Things were going to be okay. And just because things were like this now, didn't mean they had to stay like this forever. Dean didn't like not having the use of his legs, but he was growing accustom to it. And he was making due with what he had. Maybe, once he'd figured out how to do a lot of things for himself, he could move out, get a place of his own. He'd never really thought of it before, having his own place, but hey, it was always a possibility. He wasn't sure how that would go, considering the only thing keeping him sane around here was having the kids around. He'd grown used to having the sounds of other people around him twenty four hours a day. He wasn't sure if he was ready to give that up yet.

Deciding it was time to head on into the kitchen to give Sarah some grief about her sauce, Dean reached to grab a hold of his wheels. He bent slightly to the side and that's when it hit him. A sharp pain, shooting straight up his spine, exploding in the back of his head, and spreading out across his arms and chest. It blinded him. He gasped and for a horrible moment, he couldn't catch his breath, winded. Nausea washed over him in waves and he sat there for a moment, willing it all away. And it only took a few seconds, but the pain dulled and finally faded. He sat still for a moment, eyes closed, just taking in breaths. Damn, that hurt. It was like the pain he'd felt that morning he'd woken up to Hannah on the end of his bed, only this was a good deal worse. And it wasn't the first time he'd had it. He'd been having pains like these the entire time he'd been at Sam's house. But none of them had been as bad as this one. It left him dizzy and when he finally opened his eyes, he had to blink a few times to get his vision to focus.

He found Hannah standing at the edge of the hall, watching him with a trepid look on her face. Dean just looked back at her, knowing he'd been caught. They stared at each other for a while, neither one moving nor saying anything.

"Are you okay?" Hannah asked quietly, obviously keeping her voice down so her parents wouldn't hear. Sometimes Dean thought this little girl was much older than just eleven.

"Peachy keen, jellybean," Dean said breathlessly.

Hannah frowned like she didn't believe him, but bless her heart if she didn't say anything about it. Instead, she put her hands on her hips and said, "I'm not a jellybean."

Dean, glad for the distraction, smiled slightly, though it didn't really reach his eyes. "Could have fooled me." And when she frowned deeper, he stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture and Dean took it a step further by crossing his eyes and contorting his mouth. Hannah did the same.

When Sam came out of the kitchen and called Patrick and Cameron for dinner, he found Hannah and Dean making twisted faces at each other. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're teaching my children to be animals," Sam joked.

"They were already animals when I got here," Dean said and Sam frowned at the slight waiver in his voice. He eyed his brother a bit more closely. Dean looked slightly pale and there was sweat on his brow. Before he could ask if he was all right, Patrick and Cameron came barreling down the hallway and ran into the kitchen.

"I get the end piece of garlic bread!" Patrick announced.

"No way!" Hannah yelled and abandoned her face making to run into the kitchen and wrestle her brother for the bread. "I get it!"

Sam heard Sarah's scold of, "There are two ends, so two pieces," but ignored it for now, instead focusing on Dean, who had slumped a bit in his chair, looking tired.

"Dinners ready," Sam said needlessly.

Dean nodded, though there was much less enthusiasm there than had been before. Sam was instantly worried. "I think I'm going to skip dinner," Dean told him.

"You okay?" Sam asked. Dean was able to look him in the eye, so it must not have been something too bad.

"Yeah," Dean nodded. "I'm just kind of tired."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked, taking a step forward.

Dean rolled his eyes towards Sam and gave him the classic Dean look, which alleviated some of Sam's worries. "Not too tired that I won't kick your ass if you ask me again."

Sam snorted and watched as Dean started wheeling himself back to his room. "You need some Advil or anything?" Sam asked.

"I'm good, Sammy," Dean answered, looking over his shoulder.

"All right, well," Sam wanted to say something more, wondering what had gotten into his brother. He hoped Dean wasn't catching anything. So soon after getting out of the hospital, so soon after the accident, it wouldn't be good if Dean got sick. "I'll save you some spaghetti, then."

"Whatever, lawyer-boy," Dean mocked playfully before getting to his bedroom and closing the door.

Sam stood for a moment looked at Dean's closed door, debating whether or not to go into his room and demand Dean tell him what was wrong. He finally decided against it. Dean had been doing far better than Sam would have imagined with the whole, "tell me what's going on" thing lately, so he figured if there was something important that needed to be said, Dean would tell him. Maybe they'd just overexerted him. It had been pretty chaotic around here for a while. Sam decided that tomorrow he'd make sure they all took it easy. Maybe settle down and watch some movies or something. Have a nice day of relaxation. Yeah, that's what they would do.

Walking into the kitchen, Sam found his family already starting to eat. Hannah, with a mouth half full, asked, "Where's Uncle Dean?"

"He's tired, so he's heading to bed early tonight," Sam informed her, sitting down and scooping himself a helping.

"Is he okay?" Hannah asked and Sam paused, amazed at his daughter's ability to always guess what was going on.

Sam didn't have to answer, because Sarah answered for him. "Of course he's okay," she said. "Don't worry about your uncle Dean, he's a strong guy."

"Strong like the Terminator!" Patrick announced and started making muscles, snarling his lips, which didn't make him look any tougher considering the sauce smeared onto his cheeks.

"Like the Termator!" Cameron copied his older brother's movements and the two boys laughed at each other as they growled at Hannah, who looked unamused.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

It had been quiet after dinner. Patrick and Cameron had come down off of their respective sugar highs only to crash in front of the couch watching cartoons until Sam finally carried them to bed. Even after her brothers were sound asleep, Hannah was chagrined to find that her mom and dad stayed up later than normal, sitting in ht e living room, enjoying their peace and quiet. She had waited patiently, knowing that if she left before her parents went to bed, she would be caught when they came to kiss her goodnight.

So when they finally did decide to call it a night, Hannah had leapt beneath the covers, quickly pretending to be asleep. As usual, Sam came in first, kissing her forehead, brushing her hair back. Then came Sarah, pulling up her covers and doing the same. Hannah pretended to shift in her sleep and then, after they left quietly, she waited for a good minute, making sure they were truly in their bedroom, before she threw back her covers and tiptoed out of her room and towards the kitchen.

Hannah wasn't really sure why she always did this in secrecy. She knew that her parents wouldn't mind her going to visit her uncle during the night, but she was sure that her dad would have something to say about them sneaking candy so late at night. So for the past couple nights, Hannah had snuck gummy bears into Dean's room in secrecy. Maybe one day she'd invite Pat and Cam, but for now, this was her special secret with her uncle and no one else was allowed to know.

Grabbing the gummy bears from the counter, she snuck back quietly to Dean's room and opened his door, making sure to only open it so far, because any further and the hinges would squeak. Dean had showed her that the first night she'd tried it. He was always so good at that sort of stuff. She was sure he would make a great spy like she saw on television.

Quietly closing the door behind her, she grinned and jumped up onto Dean's bed, already giggling at the excitement of their late night snack. She crawled up the bed and sat beside her uncle, biting her lip in triumph as she saw that she hadn't woken him. He usually woke up as soon as the door opened. But she'd been practicing moving quietly. Still though, he could be fooling. She had to be ready for him to scare her. She didn't want to scream and wake her parents like last time.

"Oh Uncle Dean," she sang quietly, shaking the package of gummy bears in front of his face. "Wake up," she whispered and waited for him to peak an eye or do something. She waited for a moment more and when he still didn't do anything, her smile faded a bit and she shook the bag again, saying a little louder, "Uncle Dean…gummies."

When there was still no response, she put a hand on her uncle's shoulder, intending to give him a small shake, but she frowned when she felt that his shirt was damp. Why would Uncle Dean be wet? Did he take a shower? She hadn't heard the shower run. Setting the gummy bears down next to her, she reached across Dean and turned on the lamp beside his bed. Pulling back, she looked down at her uncle and frowned deeper when she saw that he was all wet. He was sweating. The way her Dad did after he came back in the morning from his jog. But he was sweating a lot more than her Dad normally did. And he hadn't done anything but just lay there all night.

"Uncle Dean?" she asked tentatively, no longer caring about how loud she spoke. Something was wrong. He looked too pale. Reaching forward, she put a hand on his head and immediately sucked in a breath when she felt how warm he was. Just remembered when just a few weeks ago Cameron had warm like this. And Dad and had been really upset over it. Cameron had been sick, so was Uncle Dean sick? He had to be. Why else wouldn't he wake up? "Uncle Dean, wake up," she tried again, shaking his shoulder.

A soft, pain-filled moan came from her uncle and Hannah froze. Was she hurting him? She was hardly touching him. Something was wrong. Something was really wrong. "Uncle Dean, please?" Hannah said, her voice quavering. She bit her lower lip and when he didn't answer, she made up her mind.

She needed to get her Dad.

Sam jolted up as the door to their bedroom was flung open, banging harshly against the wall. He felt Sarah move next to him, holding him a bit closer for a moment, both of them fearful of what had just entered their room. But when Sam saw the small figure sprinting across their room, he relaxed somewhat, but not fully, considering the look on his daughter's face.

"Hannah?" he asked, blinking away the sleep still in his eyes and forcing himself to wake up fully.

"Daddy!" Hannah cried, reverting to the nickname she only used in dire situations. She'd been the one to proclaim she was too old to be calling him it anymore. So when she used it, Sam always knew she meant business. "Daddy, something's wrong with Uncle Dean!"

That caught his attention. Sarah flicked on the light while Sam swung his legs off the bed, letting Hannah tug on his arm, pulling him towards the door. "What's wrong?" he demanded, his heart skipping a beat, thinking about how tired Dean had looked earlier in the day. Oh god, he should have pressed it more. Dammit, Dean.

"He won't wake up!" Hannah said and Dean felt his heart stop. He raced past Hannah, out the door, down the stairs, and into Dean's room. He didn't even hear Hannah following him, or Patrick's small inquiry as to what was going on as Sarah picked him up and followed them.

All Sam could focus on was his brother. Dean was lying on the bed, the covers pushed down to his waist, one arm across his stomach while the other hung off the bed. He was sweating so much that his shirt was clinging to him. His cheeks were flushed, but his skin was otherwise far too pale, including his lips, which were verging on taking a blue tint. Oh god, what now?

Sam rushed forward, climbing onto Dean's bed and kneeling over him, feeling his pulse first. He found it strong, but a bit thready. He put his hands on the sides of Dean's face, turning his brother's head so if he opened his eyes, he'd be looking right at Sam.

"Dean," Sam commanded, without a question there. There wasn't a response. "Dean, come on," Sam said again, giving Dean a slight tap on the cheek. That elicited a small groan and Dean's face scrunched in pain, his breath catching and his shoulders flexing, the way he would do if he were trying to escape some sort of pain. Sam felt his heart start to race. Something was wrong. Some was horribly wrong. "Dean, open your eyes," Sam commanded stronger, though his voice nearly broke at the end. He fought back the tears that threatened him. Now was not the time to cry. He didn't know what was wrong; it could just be the flu or something. No need to get worked up just yet.

When Dean still didn't respond, Sam turned towards the doorway where Sarah stood, looking worried. She held Patrick on one hip and had her hand on Hannah's shoulder. Hannah was crying softly, upset. Sam hadn't failed to notice the candy sitting beside Dean and he guessed that's what she'd been doing in his room in the first place. But he would have to deal with that later. He wasn't angry, but this was the second time she'd come into her uncle's room only to be scared by something. He didn't know what sort of thoughts were going through his daughter's mind right now. Hannah had a near unhealthy hero worship for her uncle and Sam knew what it felt like to have someone you love that much have something like this happen to them.

"Sarah," Sam said as he watched his wife set Patrick down, who rubbed at his eyes, but was looking more alert, realizing something was wrong with his uncle. "Call an ambulance, something's wrong," Sam said, wishing his children weren't standing right there. He watched their eyes widen and soon Patrick joined his sister in crying. "Guys, he's going to be okay, he's just sick," he tried to assure them.

"Why won't he wake up?" Hannah asked, voice hitching.

"He's just sick, honey," Sam said, turning back to Dean and running a hand over his brother's head. Dean didn't even flinch, only continued to moan softly. "He'll be okay once we get him to the hospital."

Sam hoped he wasn't lying.

Dean still hadn't woken fifteen minutes later when the ambulance arrived. Sarah had gotten the kids dressed. They had stopped crying except for Cameron, who was crying more because he was cranky for being woken up than because he knew what was going on. Sam went with Dean in the ambulance while Sarah followed with the kids.

The change of pace in the hospital nearly drove Sam mad. Things had been happening so quickly up until Dean had been whisked away on a stretcher through a pair of swinging doors Sam wasn't allowed to go through. But afterwards, time slowed down to a dead crawl. Sam didn't like it at all.

Cameron fell asleep on Sarah's lap. Patrick sat in a chair, swinging his legs, trying to fend off the sleep that so desperately wanted to claim him. Hannah sat cross legged in a chair next to Sarah, staring at the doors, lost in thought. Sam thought she looked rather traumatized, but he didn't know how many more times he could tell her that Dean would be all right. The girl obviously wouldn't believe it until Dean came out and told her himself. Hell, Sam didn't know if he believed it. He didn't know what was wrong with his brother.

"Is Uncle Dean dead?" Patrick asked after a few minutes of waiting.

Sam was about to answer, but Hannah beat him to it. "He's not dead!" she screamed. Sarah reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, giving the few other people in the waiting room an apologetic look. "Don't you say that he's dead! He's not going to die, not ever!"

Patrick's face crumbled and he turned away from his sister, upset for being yelled at. Hannah looked just upset. "I was just asking," Patrick cried. "Everyone looks sad."

"Hey," Sam said to him. "He's going to be okay, bud. We're just sad because we don't like it when people are sick."

Patrick seemed to accept the answer and leaned back, staying quiet after that. Sam tried to catch Hannah's eye, but she wouldn't look at anything but the swinging doors. The room fell into silence after that.

It stayed that way for three hours. Sam pacing in front of the door, nurses coming to offer books for the kids and coffee for the parents. Cookies were brought out at one point. Patrick laid claim to them, but Hannah refused anything. When another half an hour ticked by, Sam was getting restless. He went to the nurse's desk and caught the eye of the nurse sitting there.

"Is there any word on my brother?" Sam asked impatiently.

The nurse gave him a careful smile. "You'll know something as soon as we do," she told him.

That wasn't good enough for Sam and he was about to give her a piece of his mind when the doors opened and a doctor came out, looking around the room. When he spotted Sam, he headed his way. Sam abandoned his unspoken tirade on the nurse and met the doctor halfway. He saw Hannah jump up and come over, followed by Patrick, who was looking sleepy. Sarah stood, cradling Cameron, who stirred but didn't wake, and came over.

"Doc?" Sam asked before the doctor could say anything. "How is he? What's wrong with him?"

The doctor gave Sam a small smile. Sam didn't know whether it was out of sympathy or just because of how concerned Sam was. But he didn't care right now. He just wanted to know what was wrong and how they could fix it.

"Mr. Winchester," the doctor began, looking down at the kids, frowning a bit before continuing. "With your brother's recent accidents, there were some operations that needed to be done to remove some bone fragments near his spine. There's always a risk during surgery when exposing muscles and organs to the open air that infection can occur."

"He has an infection?" Sam cut in.

The doctor took a breath, gave a small nod and continued. "Yes I'm afraid that he has developed an infection near the base of his spine. And…" the doctor took another breath, looking Sam in the eye. It spiked Sam's heart. "It's been there for a while. It's probably been festering since a few days after his surgery." Sam didn't like that notion. How long had it been since his surgery? Two and a half weeks?

"So what can we do?" Sam asked. "Is there some antibiotics you can give him?"

The doctor glanced at the kids again. "Maybe we should talk in private."

"No," Sam said sternly, forcibly, making the doctor and Sarah jump. He gave a side glance of apology before saying, "Just tell me, please."

The doctor nodded. "Mr. Winchester, the infection has spread to his bloodstream. He's in the later stages of bacteremia. Blood poisoning." Sam gave a small shake of his head, feeling tears swell up in his eyes, not understanding what the doctor was saying, but at the same time, already predicting what he was going to say. "We're normally able to treat it, but it's already spread to nearly a third of his vital organs. They've already started shutting down."

Sam felt Sarah's hand touch his arm. He bit his lip and looked at the floor, keeping back a sob that wanted to escape him. No, not this. Not after everything. Not after Dean was getting better, being Dean again. Please. The world wasn't this cruel.

"Doc…"

"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. He's not going to make it."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Dean woke slowly. There was pain everywhere. But at the same time, he felt as though he were floating. As though his body were suspended in water, rocking gently with the waves and the current of some invisible body of water. Things were slow and quiet and dull and Dean recognized what was going on. He was drugged up on some pretty heavy-duty painkillers. But as much as the painkillers were dulling his senses, fogging his thoughts, slowing things down, they didn't stop him from realizing that if he was this drugged up, something was wrong.

Forcing his eyes open, they swam with tired tears for a moment before he managed to clear his vision and see the cream colored ceiling. How many times had he woken to ceilings just like this one? Too many. Too fucking many. Rolling his eyes to the side, he was surprised at who was sitting next to him. He'd expected it to be Sam, but the long hair and soft smile were definitely feminine.

"Sarah?" Dean managed to get her name out, though his throat was constricted and dry. She leaned forward so he wouldn't have to strain himself too much to see her. He realized she was holding his hand.

"You're awake," she observed quietly, her smile faltering somewhat, but she managed to keep the comforting gaze in her eyes. Dean appreciated it, but he also knew how to interpret it. There was sympathy, sadness, and resignation in her eyes. Dean guessed right away what was going on. He'd seen eyes like that before. On a doctor's face many years ago when he'd told him he only had a month at most to live. He'd recognize that look anywhere. "I made Sam take the kids for a walk. He's going buggy."

"It's not good, is it?" he asked, the effort of talking making his eyes droop halfway closed. He felt Sarah squeeze his hand and he forced them back open again. He watched as Sarah shook her head ever so slightly, looking away from him for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts, trying to gather the words. He gave her time.

"I'm so sorry, Dean," she said at last and Dean only nodded. She told him then what had happened. She told him about the infection and how it had spread throughout his body. About how his vital organs were shutting down, not functioning properly. About how he wasn't going to make it. There was nothing they could do. Dean sat through it. He sat there and just listened. Looking for a loophole, a way out, but there was none. The more Sarah told him, the more he realized that this was it. Things were over, he was done. And surprisingly, it didn't disturb him as much as it probably should have. A week ago, he would have prayed for something like this. Though he'd come a long way since then, and he sure as shit didn't want to die, he was strangely okay with it. But he knew no one else would be.

Sarah sighed, wiping away a tear that slipped from her eye. Dean smiled a bit and said, "You shouldn't cry."

She gave a small incredulous laugh. "Can't really help it."

"It doesn't become you," Dean said, trying his best to give her one of those looks that had always drove her crazy. She merely laughed at him and stood up, intent on going to get Sam, he supposed.

"I'll try to remember that," she said.

"Sarah," Dean stopped her as she was about to leave the room. She turned and looked at him and Dean fought to find a way to say what he wanted to tell her. He needed to tell her this, before Sam got here because he knew he wouldn't have another chance. Not with Sam hovering. "Sam's not going to accept it," he said and Sarah straightened her back, nodding to show him that she knew what he was talking about. "He confuses optimism with delusion sometimes." That garnered a small chuckle from the both of them. Then Dean grew serious again. "Take care of him for me."

Walking towards him, she leaned over him and said, "Always." She kissed his forehead, causing Dean to raise his eyebrows at her as she smiled. "You've done right by him."

And that was all he needed to hear. He could only nod his thanks to her as she left the room to find Sam. _You've done right by him._ That's why, he realized. That's the reason he was okay with this. His whole life, the only thing he'd ever cared about more than life itself was the notion that he needed to take care of Sammy. In the past few days, living with Sam, seeing his family, watching him go about his day, Dean knew. He knew that Sam was okay and that he would always be okay. Because he'd gotten what he wanted. He had a family, he had a home, he had a life. There was nothing more Dean could offer him.

With that thought, Dean felt his body relax in a way it hadn't done in years. Not just an untensing of muscles. It was an untensing of duty, of fear, of watchfulness. It was a release of worry. It was a resignation of a post he'd been perched on, guarding since he was four years old. And Dean had never felt so calm, so peaceful in all his life. It was okay. The job was done and he could relax.

"Dean!" Sam's voice called from the doorway and Dean opened his eyes, watching his brother make a beeline across the room for the side of Dean's bed. Dean could hear Sarah and the kids in the hall, giving Sam some time before they came in. He just watched his brother, watched as Sam looked him over, looked at the heart monitor, at the IV, at everything, making sure all was still in order. "Dean," Sam said after he was sure that everything was okay with his brother for the time being. He took a heavy seat in the chair next to him, his eyes not leaving his brother's.

"Well," Dean started, knowing that Sam was probably going nutty with worry and a desire to stop all of this from happening. "Looks like I'm gonna leave town without you," he said, playing around with the words he'd said to his brother the last time they'd been in a situation like this. Sam didn't seem to find the joke funny. Dean smiled wider, knowing he hadn't found it funny last time either.

"Don't, Dean," Sam shook his head. "We've been down this road before. We found a way to stop it last time, we'll do it again."

"I don't think there's going to be a quick fix this time, Sammy," Dean said, already growing tired. But he knew he had to finish this conversation. If he didn't, it would never be finished.

"No, Dean," Sam said sternly. "I'm finding a way to stop this. I'm not losing you, not after everything we've been through." Sam had to look away for a moment, his brow knitting in hurt and anger. He closed his eyes and when he looked back again, he whispered, "We just started being a family again."

Dean smiled warmly at him. Maybe it was the drugs, but he couldn't find the strength to banter or poke fun at his brother. Dean knew he only had so many words left, he wasn't going to waste them. "We never stopped."

Sam didn't have time to respond as the door to the room opened again and his children raced in, Hannah in the lead. She stopped when she got to the side of Dean's bed. Dean straightened himself up a little, ignoring the flashes of pain that were racing up his side, curling his insides. "Hey, kiddo," he whispered to her.

"Uncle Dean," Hannah said, her eyes tearful. "Are you gonna die?"

Dean answered her before Sam or Sarah had a chance to scold her. "Yeah." He didn't miss the way Sam's body stiffened at the response.

Hannah looked completely lost for a moment before she suddenly shook her head violently and wrapped her arms around Dean's neck. Dean held back a grunt of pain and put a hand on her back, the best hug he could give her at the moment. "But I love you," she cried into his shoulder.

"I love you too," he watched as Sarah wrapped an arm around Sam's waist, giving comfort to her husband who was barely holding it together. Dean looked up at his brother, looking him in the eye as he said the next words. "But sometimes these things just happen, no matter how much we don't want them to." Sam shook his head, silently telling him that he wasn't going to just let this one happen. Dean had no doubt his brother would do everything possible to stop it. The kid just didn't give up.

Dean felt himself growing tired and Sarah must have caught on to his drooping eyelids because she came forward and said, "We need to let your uncle get some sleep," in such a quiet voice that Dean guessed she was thinking the same thing he was. This was it. He leaned down and whispered something into Hannah's ear. She nodded and pulled away from him, going to stand next to her brothers.

"I'll be out in a minute," Sam told them and Sarah gave him a questioning look. "I'll drive you home and then I'm gonna come back." She kissed his cheek and with that, the kids and Sarah left the room. There was a moment of pain in Dean's heart, but it went away quickly as Sam sat down again, looking dejected. "You're giving up, aren't you?" he asked.

"I've had a good run, Sam," Dean told him and Sam shook his head, his face crumbling.

Sam nodded but said, "I'm still gonna look for a way to stop it."

"I know," Dean said, smiling. "And I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Sam warned.

But Dean smiled wider. "No, dude, I'm sorry," he stressed the last word and Sam frowned. "I bought Hannah a drum set. It should be waiting at the music store in town. It's cruel in the first place, but with me not around now, it's just a little unfair for you I think. Especially since I used your credit card."

Sam was quiet for a moment, a little taken aback by what he'd just heard. But then, much to Dean's delight, he let out a chuckle that wasn't forced, but still had a great deal of pain behind it. He closed his eyes and shook his head, whispering a softly scolding, "Dean."

"And I may or may have not just told her that if you got a headache, she was probably doing something right." The two shared another chuckle and Sam laid his head down on Dean's arm. Dean, for once, didn't mind the affection and he put a hand on top of Sam's head, remembering when they were little and Dean had his tonsils removed. Sam had come into his hospital room after the surgery and had done the same thing. Sam had been too little then for Dean to shove away. And now, Sam was too old. It was funny how those things worked out. "You'll be okay, Sammy," Dean whispered. And when Sam raised his head to look at his brother, Dean said, "I'll tell Dad you say hi."

When Sam didn't argue or scold Dean for saying such things, Dean knew that Sam, even if he wasn't aware of it, was starting to accept that Dean wasn't going to make it. He knew Sam wouldn't stop looking for a way to save him until he was truly dead and gone, but he knew that at least if Sam had subconsciously accepted the fact he was going to die, then when it happened, the blow wouldn't come as hard as it would if Sam refused to accept it altogether.

"I'm gonna take them home," Sam said and grabbed Dean's hand. Dean just looked up at him. "I'm gonna be right back. I'm just gonna grab a few things and then I'll come right back."

"I know," Dean said, eyes drooping again. Every blink was a little longer than the last. Sam nodded and headed towards the door. "Sammy," Dean called, stopping him. Sam turned around. Dean held up his pointer finger, sort of limp, and whispered, "Be good." Sam felt his heart clench at the gesture. It was something they'd done as kids after seeing the movie E.T. Sam had bawled like a baby and Dean had mysteriously had something in his eyes at the end of the movie. But they had used the scene as a joke between them for years. Whenever they were separated. Whenever Sam went to stay with a neighbor while Dean and their Dad went on a hunt. Of if one of them had to stay the night in the hospital and the other couldn't stay. It had become a tradition between the two. Sam couldn't remember when it had stopped.

"I'll be right back, Dean," Sam said, choking on his words as the tears wouldn't be held back any longer. Dean just smiled and lowered his hand.

When Sam came back after dropping his kids and wife off and grabbing his laptop and old list of contacts, Dean had fallen asleep.

He wouldn't wake up again.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Three days later, Sam wasn't any closer to finding a way to help Dean than he'd been when he first started. Aside from transferring Dean's soul from one body to another or turning Dean into the living dead, Sam had nothing. And he was beginning to realize that he wasn't going to find anything. But that didn't stop him from looking. He'd spent the first two days in Dean's hospital room, still believing that Dean could wake up and he wanted to be there for that. But Sarah had convinced him that he needed to come home, that his family needed him. So he'd gone home and locked himself in his office, researching any and every possibility.

Occasionally he'd stop to comfort one of his kids when he heard them crying, but for the most part, he spent his time in seclusion. It would have stayed that way, too. For as long as Dean was in his coma, Sam would have secluded himself in his office. Years later, Sam would look back at all of this and would think that maybe Dean knew that. And maybe dying had been the last great gift his brother had given him.

There was a knock on the door and Sam looked up, watching as Sarah took on step inside. He took her in. Took in her red rimmed eyes, her face struggling to remain calm, the worried look in her eyes. He took in the phone in her hand and the way she clutched it to her chest, holding onto it as if it were some sort of lifesaver. He took in the way she hesitated before saying his name. And by then, he had already guessed. All Sarah had to say was a quiet, "Sam…" and he knew that he'd lost this battle. His face and crumbled, he'd put his head in his hands and he'd cried. Outright cried, like he hadn't done since his father had died.

Sarah came and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as he let it all out. Sam had never felt so lost in all his life. For as long as Sam had been alive, Dean had always been there. Even during his days at Stanford, or the days after the demon had been destroyed, even though they hadn't talked, Dean had always been there. Sam had always had the option to pick up the phone and call him. Now that that was gone, Sam understood things clearer than he'd ever understood them. He remembered his father's quiet admission as to why he'd been so angry when Sam left for college. He understood Dean's need to always have his family close by. Because now, Sam was alone. He had Sarah and he had his kids, but that wasn't the type of alone he was talking about. Sam had always had someone to make sure he made the right decisions in life, made the right moves. Now, Sam had no one to look to for support. No one to give him grief when he made stupid mistakes.

But as Sarah hugged him tighter, as she laid her chin down on top of his head, he thought that maybe that wasn't so. Sure, he had no one to talk to about hunting, but he wasn't a hunter anymore. He was a father. He was a husband. He had his kids and his wife. And even though he no longer had his father or his big brother, he that didn't mean he wasn't still their son and little brother. But he still had a right to cry. He didn't know what else to do.

The funeral was small. Sam hadn't known who to call. Dean hadn't had very many long term friends. So it had been mainly Sam, his family, Bobby and Missouri, whom both had scolded Sam for not calling the very minute Dean had first had his accident. Sam managed to track down Cassie, who came with her husband and two kids. A couple of Sam's co-workers attended, more to support Sam than because they knew Dean, and then there was the pastor. And that was it. Dean's whole world, whole life celebrated by fourteen people. It seemed unfair, considering all the people Dean had helped during his life. But Dean didn't save people so he could be their friends.

It was over quickly. Sam thanked everyone for coming, accepted the condolences and a few gifts and then it was all done. Sam found himself sitting alone in his living room with a beer in his hand, staring at the unlit fireplace. He stayed there until night, nursing his beer, just staring and thinking of Dean and their Dad and trying to drudge up all the memories he could of them, the good and the bad. He was surprised to find, that as much as he had complained and bitched, that most of his memories were good. He could look back at them fondly.

Hands wrapped around him and he looked up, only to be kissed on the forehead. He gave Sarah a half smile as she played with his hair for a moment. Then after a little bit, she kissed him again and said, "Goodnight. Don't stay up too late."

"I won't," he promised her sincerely. She accepted the answer and headed off for bed.

When she was gone, Sam's eyes roved over the living room. They fell on the ramp that he'd built a week earlier in preparation for Dean's arrival. He thought for a moment that maybe he'd tear it down. But he decided against it. He didn't think he'd have the heart to do that. To destroy something that he'd made for his brother. Next, he looked at the mantle above the fireplace. There were pictures there, of Sam and his family, of Dean, of John, and the photograph Sam had known his entire life. Of a family he barely remembered. An ex-marine with a smile so wide. A blonde woman with a look so soft. A boy with a goofy grin and a baby with a cuddled look.

They were all gone. Not a one of them had made it out of that fire.

Then Sam looked towards the hallway, where the puzzle Dean and his children had put together hung on the wall, glued together. It had been a chore to get the thing to stay together. The puzzle glue they'd bought had been too old to work properly, but Dean had somehow managed to make it stick. Dean always managed to make things stick together.

"Sam?" He turned at his name and saw that Sarah had come back out with Hannah, Patrick and Cameron in tow. He frowned and leaned forward. "Your children have something they want to show you," she said.

Sam set his beer down and turned towards them. "Oh yeah?" he said, wondering what it was.

Hannah was smiling as Patrick stepped forward and Cameron did the same. Patrick bit his lip to keep his grin at bay and then said, "Cam, commando!" Cameron immediately dropped to the ground and started doing his commando rolls across the floor, crashing into the couch and the table and even Hannah, who fell over in a fit of laughter. Even Sarah joined them in chuckling.

Sam merely watched. When Cameron stood up, a little dizzy and said, "Laugh, Daddy," Sam felt tears sting at his eyes and he reached out and grabbed Cameron in a hug and pulled him in tightly. Cameron hugged him back. He looked up at Hannah and Patrick, who were still both smiling.

"Dad?" Hannah asked quietly and Sam looked at her. "Uncle Dean told me to make sure that we made you laugh." Sam thought back to that day in the hospital when Dean had whispered something into Hannah's ear. He'd thought Dean had said something about the drum set, but apparently not. Sam closed his eyes and thought about when Dean had given up hope and Sam had told him that he could always count on him to make him laugh. And here he was, dead and gone, and he was still working on making him laugh. The notion itself made Sam chuckle out loud.

"It worked!" Cameron cried triumphantly and pulled away from him. Sam chuckled again, wiping at his eyes. He leaned back and looked at his family, all of them smiling at him and he couldn't help but think that he had Dean to thank for this. Not just this moment, but for all of this. Dean had done so much to ensure Sam got the family he had always wanted. If not for Dean, Sam would have probably died in a fire. If not the one in Lawrence, then definitely the one in Stanford. If he'd made it through the fire, he probably would have died from grief over Jessica's death. How many times had Dean saved Sam's life? How many times had Dean made him laugh? How much had Dean taught Sam about life so that when someone came up, he was always prepared to handle it? Hadn't Dean been the one to point out that Sarah had been checking him out? Hadn't Dean been the one to push him into asking her out on a date? Hadn't Dean been the one to convince him to call her after John's death, after the hunt was over? Look at everything Dean had done for him. Everything he wouldn't have had if not for his brother.

"Do you miss him, Dad?" Hannah asked.

Sam sucked in a breath and nodded. "Yeah, I do."

Hannah came over to him and crawled onto his lap. He wrapped his hands around her. "Me too," she told him. They sat like that for a moment. Patrick and Cameron stood by their mother, the room having sobered a bit. Hannah broke the quiet. "When are we going to pick up my drum set?"

Sam laughed out loud and that and looked down at her, seeing the same innocent face that he'd seen on his brother so many times. No doubt he'd taught it to her. "You know about that, huh?" She grinned and nodded. "Well maybe we'll go pick it up tomorrow."

"I promised him I'd learn how to play Zeppelin," she told him matter-of-factly. "I'm gonna play drums, Pat's gonna play guitar and Cameron gonna do the keyboard."

"Oh really?" Sam asked, looking at his other children. They both nodded their agreement. "Well then it looks like I have a lot of instruments to buy. Not to mention lessons and music books. It's going to take a lot to learn how to play these things. Are you sure you're not just going to get bored and discouraged with it after a few weeks?"

"Dad," Hannah said, looking at him with a "duh" look on her face. "I promised Uncle Dean. A Winchester doesn't go back on their promise."

Sam smiled at her. It was the first time he'd heard her say something like that. The first time he'd heard her call herself a Winchester other than introducing herself as Hannah Winchester. It felt good. Incredibly good to hear his own child refer to herself like that. "Just making sure," he told her.

Hannah nodded and jumped off his lap. "Come on," she said to Patrick and Cameron, who jumped up and followed her. "Maybe we could write a song about Uncle Dean," she said as they walked back towards their rooms. He decided not to comment on the bag of gummy bears he saw Hannah trying to hide, nor the sly looks on his sons' faces as they were delighted to be a part of Hannah's late night ritual.

Sam chuckled as he heard Cameron reply, "Like a Superman song!"

Sarah came over to him, sitting down on the arm of the chair he was seated on. He wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her neck a bit. She played with his hair some more. "Are you going to be all right?" she asked.

Was he going to be all right? That was a good question. Dean wasn't around anymore. But then again, he was everywhere. Everything that Sam was, everything that he would ever be, had been influenced by Dean in some way or another. His children would never forget their uncle, Hannah would definitely dedicate her life to doing what he uncle asked of her, which was okay with Sam. He knew that Sarah and Dean had exchanged words in the hospital, because she'd been giving him a look lately that told him Dean had passed the torch to her. So even though Dean was gone, even though Sam no longer had his big brother to watch out for him, Dean had made sure that he would always be watching out for Sam. He'd be watching out for him by making the people around him watch out for him and love him.

"Yeah," Sam answered, looking into her eyes. "I think I will."

i _Six year old Sam hugged his teddy bear tightly to his chest and pulled his thumb out of his mouth, remembering that this was a habit six year olds were too old to do. He looked up at his brother. "Dean, tell me a story," he pleaded. _

"_It's too late for a story," Dean replied, looking down at his brother as he stood beside his bed. _

"_Please? Just a short one?" Sam begged, reaching out to snag Dean's shirt. _

"_Okay, fine," Dean sighed and shoved Sam's hand back beneath the blankets, tucking them in around him again, looking irritated that Sam had messed them up in the first place. "Once upon a time there was this family and they fought bad monsters all day and all night. They grew up and became heroes and saved the world. The end." Dean nodded and said, "Now go to sleep." _

"_Did they live happily ever after?" Sam asked, growing sleepy. _

"_Doesn't every hero?" Dean asked as if it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world. _

_And that was good enough for Sam. He smiled and rolled onto his side, curling in on himself. His thumb found its way back to his mouth. Dean fixed the blankets again so they were perfectly cocooning his brother. Then he headed towards the door, turning off the light on his way out. _

"_Night Dean," Sam called softly to his brother, sleep already grasping at him. _

_Dean stayed in the doorway for a few seconds, watching his little brother fall asleep. Then he smiled and before going down the hall to his bedroom he whispered,_

"_Night, Sammy."_ /i 

The End


End file.
